New Hampshire Gothic’s first submission, courtesy of Jess Scharf! What a pleasure to read.
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Wes stared at his reflection indignantly.
This was always his post shower routine: he’d bare himself to the candid truths his bathroom mirror so mercilessly imparted, and the longer he looked, the more he found wrong with himself.
Take this morning, for instance. Wes recognized that his complexion wasn’t of the most… aflush variety, but this morning he couldn’t help but notice he looked paler than usual…sickly, almost. There was a grayish tincture along the sides of his face, near his hairline and just under his jaw. And a flaking of some sort near the corners of his face. Dry skin, perhaps?
Wes harrumphed dismissively, convinced it was the florescent lighting, and slathered some lotion all over his face before his mother called him down for breakfast.
Wes cracked his knuckles and swallowed his annoyance. He hated his parents, this house, his school. He hated it all. He desperately wished to disappear, to start over…to be a different person.
“Wesley, sit down, Mama made pancakes.” Mrs. Stevens shoveled a pile of ash onto his plate and called for her husband. “LARY! I MADE TOAST!”
Mr. Stevens padded into the kitchen on ginger feet. Wes thought his father looked like a depressed flower, withered and drooping. His spine, bent like a stem crippled by a heavy rain.
“Thank you, dear.” Mr. Stevens attempted to spread margarine on the cremated remains of his breakfast, and when his effort was unsuccessful, he gently laid the knife down and sipped his coffee.
“I’ve got school,” Wes said. He left his food untouched and slung his backpack over his shoulder. He didn’t bother to say goodbye or kiss and hug his parents farewell. He hadn’t told them he’d loved them in years.
At school, time passed slowly, but his impression was always filmy. Faces blurred together and the subjects didn’t matter anymore. When teachers called on him he knew the answer, but nothing held his interest. He didn’t care. When he walked down the hallways people called him names but he had long since found a way to block them out: he imagined a horde of bees living in his head, buzzing. Always buzzing. When people hectored him the buzzing got louder until all he could focus on was the door to his next destination; all other sounds and stimuli disappeared.
For lunch, Wes brought his own. He ate in the men’s bathroom on the third floor where no one ever bothered him. Peanut butter and a pickle on wheat, always.
After he crumpled up his paper bag and actually used the stall he was occupying, he headed to the sinks.
He stared at himself as he washed his hands and noticed the gray discoloration on his face had spread. He blinked. Once, Twice. Three times, just to make sure, but when he opened them there was no difference. He looked like death.
And the dry skin had dispersed as well. It was no longer just at the corners, but interspersed across his face; the surface of his nose, his chin, his cheek bones. Gossamer scabs that reminded him of burnt paper; crumbly charcoal dust that disappeared into thin air upon one rustle of wind.
Wes looked at himself for a long time. He searched for the hidden depths in his eyes he’d heard he could find there, but only found a reflection of a sad boy with a vile exterior.
Disintegrating and decaying, Wes made the decision to peel off his shedding skin. It was easier than he thought.
With nimble fingers, determined in their purpose, Wes pulled, and stretched, and ripped…until he began to see the beginnings of a flawlessly smooth complexion underneath. This one, healthily flushed. He peeled away a pot marked complexion and watched it replace itself with creamy flesh; virgin flesh, that hadn’t been taunted or picked on or seen.
Wes couldn’t believe it. With the more skin he removed, the promise of a different identity presented itself more assuredly. He could actually see the shadow of an alternative life, a better life, present itself.
With one final tug, Wes peeled the rest of the ashen skin from his face and let it disintegrate onto the floor. He leaned deeper into the sink to examine his new face and released a breath mixed with disbelief and reprieve.
The stranger staring at him in the mirror, smiled. A slow, gradual, grotesque expression that overwhelmed his face. Toothy, and surreal.
“Hello,” a deep voice ricocheted off the stalls and the porcelain in the deserted third floor bathroom, and a quiet laugh bounced and traveled down the hall.
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