Page 8 of SKIN

“How long have you known me?”

He grinned, a minute curl of his lips on the left side. The scar tissue never moved, no matter the expression he made. It was eerie. “It feels like it’s been forever.” He shrugged, and I huffed.

“That’s not a good answer.”

“Then ask better questions, pet.” The chair scraped across the cement flooring as he scooted back and leaned against the wall, with his arms above his head and his eyes glued to the ceiling like he was soaking up his fill of UV rays on some tropical beach. Instead of sitting in this dank basement beneath the handful of flickering fluorescent bulbs.

“What’s the point of agreeing if you weren’t planning on participating?”

Another shrug of his shoulders. “Who am I to begrudge someone their need for a ticking clock?”

“A man who rapes women, apparently,” I hissed in reply.

“Not women. Woman. One woman in particular.” He rocked forward on his seat and planted his feet back on the ground. Then his gaze landed on me like a pair of laser beams that could somehow sear their way through to my soul. “Ticktock, pet. Your time is running out.”

“One woman or twenty. Rape is rape, you son of a bitch.”

“You can throw that word around as much as you want, darlin’. All you’re doing is making my dick harder.” He tilted his head as he observed me for a minute, adjusting his cock in his pants before adding, “Look at me.” He gestured to his face, along his right arm, down to his scarred hands. “Do you really think I care what kind of monster you see me as? I know who and what I am. Can you say the same? Or do you lie to yourself as much as you lie to me, Emily?”

12

HIM

She seemed to consider my question for a moment, chew on it as if it were a complex math equation with a veritable answer. That was the problem with people like Emily Shaw. They always thought they were smarter than everyone else. Give them enough time and they could unravel you, sniff out your weakness and use it to their advantage.

But I saw her for who she really was. A monster just like me. Perhaps worse. Because she hid it better.

“You sure like to hurl insults, don’t you?” She was running out of clever retorts. That much was clear.

“Was that one of your questions, pet? Or more of a rhetorical thing?” I raised my good eyebrow at her growing irritation.

“Fuck you,” she seethed, and I grinned and took another bite of my apple.

Maybe I will. After I’m done with my lunch.

I kept that thought to myself. I was much better company after all. Because I always laughed at my own jokes.

13

HER

DAY 3

“Why apples?” It was a waste of a question. But one that honestly piqued my interest.

Was it a weird obsession? Some kind of dietary need? Was I kidnap by Johnny Appleseed’s creepy older brother?

I still couldn’t remember how I got here. There was just a bunch of blank spaces in time that my brain was trying desperately and unsuccessfully to fill. So I decided to focus on what was right in front of me instead. Him and his obnoxious chewing.

He lowered the fruit from his mouth for a moment, flicking his gaze down before lifting his eyes back to me again. “Because they’re a lot like people. We choose 'em based on what we see on the outside, but it’s not until we peel back the skin that we’re forced to bear witness to how truly rotten they are. Take you, for example.”

His lips twisted into a grin that would be charming if it weren’t so sadistic at the same time. Then he canted his head to the side as if examining me. My arms shot up and crossed over my chest without me realizing it. His scrutiny left me feeling far more vulnerable than the flimsy nightgown.

“You’re pretty enough. Decent packaging. Fuckable, of course.” His brow twitched as if he found himself amusing. “But slap that ass on an aluminum table and hand me a scalpel? Oh, the stories that body would tell. Every bruise, every tiny pin prick and failing organ—everything you try so desperately to hide under the business casual pantsuit and sensible shoes—would be mine for the viewing. I mean, really, Em, pantsuits? When did you become so basic?” He bit into the apple again, making a show of spraying the juices down his chin and licking it off. He was trying to goad me. He was also trying to distract me from what he was really telling me.

“You’re a doctor,” I gasped at the realization.

“No, I’m not.” His tone was dry, too dry, and it lacked the usual humor and cockiness he wore like a coat of armor.

---