With Skin On

Gather ’round boys, and let me tell you about how I, your sweet grandmother, skinned a witch. Oh, you don’t believe me? You think I’ve always had these arthritic hands, these creaky bones? No, I was once nimble and fresh like you. She’s still in me, that little girl, that fearsome witch-skinner. Remember that the next time you think it’s funny to hide my dentures.

It was the night of my ninth birthday. My parents took me to the Metropolitan Opera. I don’t know why—perhaps they were trying to culture me, get me out of my shell. Back then all I did was sit in my room and play with dolls. I liked my solitude, but there I was.

All night, I could feel her staring at me. With one glance at the row behind me, I saw the treacherous hag. Her skin was stretched, too loose for her face, like a mask melting off. And her eyes—black, demon eyes, children! The hag cackled, trying to get my attention, I imagine. But I refused to look again. I kept my eyes on the stage.

It wasn’t until later that I found out the woman was a witch. That if you tugged at her exterior, just a little, you could pull off her human suit.

***

Gather round, dear sewage rats. Come sit beside me, sweet centipedes and cockroaches. I will now, after all your cajoling, tell you how a little girl stole my skin. No, I don’t know where it is now. Now that I’m all bloody muscle, I’m perfectly content to stay down here in the warm, wet tunnels with you. Do I miss the above? Sometimes. Mostly, I miss gazing at the moon. But the air up there is dry and cold, and human beings wear skin and judge those who don’t.

Oh, everything hurts! That is why I ask you not to touch me when you see me floating by. I know you want to cuddle, raccoon, but you have no idea how your coarse fur will scratch my exposed nerves. I know you care. Your company alone is enough.

I don’t mean to lecture, lovelies. I’ll get to the story. I met the little girl at the opera. You’ve never heard of the opera? Oh, it’s a magical place filled with song and heartache. An opera should always be sung in a red room, with red plush chairs, red wallpaper, red curtains, and a red carpet. It should resemble the inside of a throat; the audience has to feel swallowed. It’s a rare moment our boundaries dissolve. Like sugar in tea.

When the soprano took the stage and let out a wail, the girl opened her mouth to yawn. It looked like the voice was coming from deep inside her.

It was then I smelled her breath and knew right away she was magic. Indeed, magic has a smell! It’s sweetness bordering on rot. Like the deep woods at night when the flowers sigh out their souls to roam the darkness. Oh, you’ve never been to the woods, sewage rat? Well then think of it as spoiled fruit in a market’s dumpster. Like berries weeping mold, yet still bursting and ripe.

My, how I laughed with joy when I smelled it. How rare it was, to meet a young enchantress—in a city, no less! I’d lost many covens throughout the centuries. First to the flames, then to the noose. Ever since then I wandered, searching for a kindred spirit. It was terribly lonesome. But here was a fresh soul with budding magic. I wanted to show her the ways of the shadows. To connect her to the wonders of alchemy, sorcery, spells and the like. In short, I wanted to be her mentor.

So I followed her home.

***

Patience, grandchildren. Sit down, I’m getting to the good part. Yes, I did skin her that night, but let me tell you how. My, how you young things crave violence!

After the opera, the old hag trailed us a few blocks. She crept along the shadows in her black cloak, her black eyes dead set on me. But when I pointed her out to my mother, she was gone.

Back in our apartment, my parents locked themselves in their bedroom to make my little sister. You kids are old enough to know about this, aren’t you? Oh, I guess not. Well, imagine a mommy and daddy growing baby parts in a little garden. A hand in the daisies, a mouth in the roses. And just when they’re ripe for the plucking, the parents harvest the pieces and sew a child.

My mother and father had an indoor garden in their room. They played loud music as they created my sister, so I could not hear her cries. Birth is a painful process, children. Not just for the mother, but the baby. Imagine feeling yourself in a body for the very first time. It’s squished, suffocating. It takes a long time to get used to it.

So there I was, drawing in my room, listening to the songs coming through the walls. The music was sprinkled with bells and echoes, like water fairies playing inside a well. I was, as always, content in my solitude. But something interrupted me: a tap on my window. At first, I ignored it. We lived on the fourth floor—it was probably a bird. But no, it was a knock. A deliberate one.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I pulled back my curtains and there, I saw the old hag! Her hook nose was pressed up against the glass, and her wild black eyes were upon me. Startled, I fell to the floor. The witch heaved up the heavy window with just one long fingernail and crawled inside. The night wind carried her musk to my nostrils: the lingering scent of a bonfire. Ash. Not a roaring fire, but the memory of one. In a way, it smelled sweet.

“My kin,” she said. Her voice was creaky like an old door. She stepped closer.

One step. Two steps. Three…

I screamed for my mother, but her music was too loud. The witch hunched over me, her long grey hair pooling in my eyes.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I will help you remember everything.”

***

Then the girl fainted on the floor. Or at least, that’s what it looked like. I felt awful scaring her like that—I didn’t mean to! I tapped her window as gently as I could, but there was no subtle way to go about this. It’s not like I could buzz her apartment, ask to use the front door.

For the remembrance spell I needed some of her filth to offer to the mother goddess—only then would she remember who she really was, with one less layer of illusion. So I got to work: I dug the dirt out of her fingernails, scraped the amber crust from her eye, and flossed the gunk from her teeth.

As I was squeezing the pores on her nose for oil, I noticed something strange. Her skin—it stretched off her bones like putty. It gave itself to my grasp totally, with no resistance. If I pulled any more, I would have taken the flesh clean off her nose.

The little girl’s eyes flew open, except this time, they were no longer a cool brown. They were black as the abyss. They swallowed up the light, and the room darkened. Her scent shifted, too: instead of forest spirits, she now stank of rotting meat. An odor of decay and burnt hair. She stood on her feet quickly, as though pulled up by an invisible string, and before I could comprehend what she was doing, she slid her finger down the center of my body.

At first it was nothing but a mild tingle, but then it grew, an ember becoming the roaring fires of hell. The flames licked all parts of me, the most sensitive nerves from my toes to my nose. I lost all direction—all thought, all memory of who I was, all the centuries I lived. Gone in that white-hot pain!

The little girl laughed and laughed as she peeled the skin off my body like an orange rind, blood spattering on her pale, moonish face. I watched, frozen in terror as she licked the blood from her lips and smiled. The wicked beast—she feasted on my fear.

The little girl carried the heavy mounds of my flesh to her closet and hung them on a coat hanger. Inside, I could make out a closet-full of skins. Black, white, young, old. A whole collection. That’s when I realized she was no witch. She was much, much more powerful. Something ancient, something evil. I feared what else she might do next—if she was capable of stealing much more than my skin.

I leapt out the window and ran a few blocks. Suffering was in every step, but I had to keep going. The extreme burn of the slice, the echoes of her fingers peeling my boundaries away. And then there was the cold! I pray you will never know a cold like this, my dears.

In the distance I could see steam rising from an open sewage grate. The warmth called to me. I climbed down to hide for the night, thinking I’d reemerge when the morning sun warmed the day. But each time I began to climb up, I saw the eyes of the little girl. Or whatever she was. They were like the horns of a bull goring my soul. I wanted to keep what little I had left. So in all this time—nearly seventy years now—I have not gone up.

Don’t cry, opossum. Wipe your tears with your tail. There is nothing to mourn. I have more peace down here than I ever had in the human world. You are my coven now.

In fact, even if she offered my skin back, I would not take it. I prefer an honest life, however painful it may be. You all can see me in ways no one else ever could. And even though you cannot touch me, I’ve never felt more held. I feel I am forever in the warm red throat of the opera house, and you are here with me.

***

So what did I do with the witch’s skin, you ask? Well it’s right here! Go ahead, pull on it. That’s right. I’m wearing it right now. No, this isn’t really what I look like, you stupid boy. I only put it on when it’s time to see you two. I did tell you the little girl was still inside me, didn’t I?

Once you break the skins in a little, they’re easy to slip into. Think of it as taking off a robe for a parka, or a kimono for a fur coat. It’s no fun to only wear one thing, after all. Oh, I’m scaring you? Well it’s not a tale meant to frighten. This is simply what I am.

What’s that? You want to call your mother? Think about it, boys. You never have seen me and your mother in the same room, have you? In all these years, that didn’t once strike you as strange? She only ever drops you off at the gate so you could walk the long, winding path up to my house. How easy would it be for her to take a short cut and come in through the back door? She’d have time to spare! Time enough to slip on a new skin and greet you at the front door as your dear old grandmother.

Oh, don’t cry now. It’s not as gruesome as it sounds. It’s quite fun, actually. Here, let me show you what I mean. Let’s play a game: How quickly can you switch into each other’s clothes? I can get in a new skin in thirty seconds flat. See if you can beat me. If you do, I’ll let one of you keep your skin.

Don’t worry, I won’t look. I’ll even close my eyes and turn around—just don’t think about running out that door. It’s locked, so there’s no point. I said stop sobbing! No one is coming. Mommy’s already here.

Are you ready? I’ll count. Let me know when you’ve switched. I’m closing my eyes, here we go. One, two, three…