Mary Barret's Skin

By Ellie Stewart

Mary Barrett couldn’t stand the feeling of her own skin. Or more accurately, the skin. She had felt for some time now that it didn’t belong to her. It was too bare, too cold, too smooth. It itched and tugged in the wrong places, too tight or too loose, and if she got cut she swore something was hidden underneath. 

It hadn’t always been like this. When she was young she’d run naked in the springs and summers through the woods behind their house following the flights of birds. It had never felt out of place, not then. It had all begun when she was fourteen and started to grow, bones stretching and fat shifting. The skin had never suited her after that. 

At first, it just felt off, gaping around her fingers and sticking to her ribs. Then she started to notice differences, a mole where she hadn’t had one before, smooth patches void of hair, unidentifiable scratches. Recently it had gotten unbearable, when she moved to the city for her new job and new boyfriend. Jason was perfect, tall, and funny. When she had finally told him about the skin he shrugged and replied that his skin had always fit him just fine. He was right of course; it was fluid and supple, sitting nicely over his bones -- not like hers. 

  “Look there,” she pointed out to Jason one night in bed, “that was never there before.”

Jason squinted down at the lines in her proffered palm disinterestedly. “Yeah, maybe. So?” 

“So?” She hissed. “So it’s all wrong! It’s not mine!”

Jason watched her for a minute before closing his hand over hers, concealing it off from her prying eyes. “Maybe you should go to the doctor about it then.” 

The doctor, Mary thought, of course, the doctor would be able to help. 

The waiting room reeked of disinfectant, with a hyperactive receptionist clacking away at the computer. She chewed noisily on a wad of gum as she checked Mary in, popping it with her tongue. Mary watched her mouth as moved, studying the gums lining her teeth. Mary’s own gums felt stretched, as if her teeth were trying to shift without approval. She pressed her hand to her mouth to hold them in place, the slight taste of mint on her tongue. 

“Okay, you’re all set,” she said, handing Mary back her insurance card. “Dr Thomson will be out to see you in a bit.” The receptionist’s toothy grin made Mary shudder. 

After several minutes a man of about fifty with a little nametag reading Dr Thomson polked his head around the door and beckoned Mary through to an examination room. He was stern-looking, with thinning gray hair and the skin around his eyes just starting to sag. Mary unconsciously raised her hand to her face, prodding gently at the corner of her eye, fingers finding new creases. 

“Good afternoon Ms Barrett,” He said, opening his folder and peering at the forms she had filled out in the waiting room. “How can I help you?” 

Mary launched into a description of her ailment, identifying every marker, showing him the misplaced moles and new lines. 

“You can see what I mean, right? It’s just not mine.” 

When she looked up the doctor was studying her over the top of his glasses. “Do you ever have compulsive thoughts, Miss Barrett? Or maybe repetitive behaviors?” 

Mary blinked in surprise. “What? No no, you don’t understand, it’s not my mind, just the skin!” 

The doctor nodded unconvinced and sent Mary home with a packet on Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and the numbers of several specialists. She was disheartened and to her disgust, the skin had become even more ill-fitting. It’s taking revenge on me for trying to get rid of it, Mary thought bitterly.

When Jason got home that evening, she told him what the doctor had said and showed him the packet. 

“Well, that’s good then, you know what it is,” he said. Mary felt anger bubble in her stomach. The skin was too tight around her, holding her fast. 

“It can’t be, it’s not…” The words were taking too long to come out as if her lips were trying not to make them. “The skin isn’t right Jason, it isn’t mine!” 

Jason reached up to take her hand, eyebrows quirked with concern, but Mary lunged to the window, throwing it open. The pigeons nesting on the ledge took off in a flurry of feathers and startled coos. She leaned out and heaved gulps of air but it was thick and polluted and clung to the skin, making her muscles tighten painfully. Jason took hold of her arm firmly, dragging her back inside and shutting the window after her. Mary felt as if she were suffocating, the skin pulsing malignantly around her. He was talking to her she knew, yelling even, but she couldn’t hear him, his voice drowned out by the rushing in her ears. Her fingernails pierced the skin of her palm and suddenly, for the first time in years, she felt relief, the blood trickling down her fingertips. Mary felt the skin seize violently and in a sudden shock of victory, knew what she must do. She tore out of Jason’s grasp and ran for the door, clawing at her arms and legs as she went. 

Mary knew blood was trailing after her as she barreled up the stairs. She had a faint sense that Jason was following her, but she didn’t care; she couldn’t. Soon her scrabbling fingers found purchase, hooked under the skin, and she crowed joyfully. She tore at it, scraping it back in long sheets. Underneath, something gleamed black and red and puckered. Mary finally stopped running when she reached the roof, the skin left in bloody mounds behind her. The feathers that it had concealed were ruffled and slimy with blood. Mary spread her arms in glee, a slight breeze cooling the stifled heat the skin had left. The pollution was thinner on the top of her tall apartment building, and if Mary squinted she could just see the dark woods on the hills that surrounded the city. Her senses were overwhelming, the feeling of the sun and the wind pushing aside her thoughts. She could hear the wind rustle through the trees and smell the warm fertile earth of the forest floor. She forgot about the doctor’s pamphlets and the skin she left behind.  She didn’t even hear Jason’s startled cry as he finally reached the top of the stairs. All she knew was the sun, hot on her feathered shoulders, and the scent of the woods filling the air. Mary looked up at the sky, shook out her arms and launched herself toward the edge of the roof.