Metamorphosis (was: "Skin")

I couldn’t believe my luck. I had finally found it.

Of course, I couldn’t be sure. You can never be absolutely certain when buying online. Images can be altered – lightened, smoothed out, even generated from scratch. This one seemed right. It felt right. I tried not to let myself get too excited as I examined the miniscule graphic.

I think this is it. It looks like it. I scrutinized the tiny .gif image on the screen, eyeing its surface. I smirked as I pictured myself with a jeweler’s loop in my eye, analyzing the tiny glowing image on the screen. I clicked on the image, and – yes! – an enlarged picture rolled onto the screen.

I was certain now. This was it. The tone was perfect, there were no visible flaws, no signs of neglect or abuse. The size was correct. I had finally found the perfect skin.

My hands trembled as I clicked the “ORDER ME” button. I filled out the forms – name, address, phone number and payment information. None of the information was actually mine – you could never be too careful in the skin trade. The information belonged to a carefully crafted identity that I had spent the past four years developing in anticipation of this very moment. My research told me that this seller was reliable and well-versed in transactions of this type. He wouldn’t turn me in. But there was always someone watching, someone willing to give your name to the authorities just for looking at these websites. I wouldn’t so much as view one of the trade websites from my home computer, lest someone turn up circumstantial evidence of my ventures, my passion. You could never be too careful.

I finalized the transaction, and waited. The seller advised that my order would arrive by courier in 72 hours. I would find a temperature controlled crate sealed with a computerized combination lock labeled “research materials” waiting outside the apartment. The combination would arrive via registered mail within 48 hours.

Those first 48 hours passed at an agonizing snail’s pace. I tried to keep my mind occupied with little tasks. I cleaned my kitchen, sanitizing the counter once and then again, just to be sure. I boiled the instruments, and scoured my hands just for practice. I tried to divert my thoughts with a book, some television, and even played some solitaire on my computer, but I was too distracted. The anticipation was heavy on my mind.

A few minutes shy of the 48 hour mark I made the trip to the post office box to find that, as advertised, the envelope was waiting for me. It was plain manilla bearing no postmark, listing a (almost certainly false) return address in New Mexico. I placed the envelope in my pocket, not daring to open it in public. It was all I could do to keep from sprinting home to tear the envelope apart and behold its contents.

E379228-FHGL1.

The combination had arrived…now to endure the next twenty-four hours until the package came. Time passed even more slowly as my anticipation grew. I briefly considered taking a few sleeping pills, just to make the time pass quickly while I dozed in a chemical haze, but I couldn’t risk being foggy-headed when I picked up the package. So I endured the wait as the hands on my old kitchen clock slowed to a halt.

And the moment arrived. I grabbed my jacket and sprinted to my other apartment, the near empty shell rented to a “Jonah Stark.” I could see my breath in the cold air but I could feel sweat starting to bead on my forehead.

I was nearly upon the moment I had waited for all these years. At first, way back when I first began planning my purchase, I dreamed of this very trip across town time and time again. Every time, it looked exactly like this.

I climbed the stairs to the second story, my chest heaved from the wild mix of exertion and anxiety, but I pressed on, I couldn’t stop now. And there it was – the trophy, the package, the prize: the large brown crate.

The crate was awkward, cumbersome and surprisingly heavy but the trip home was a blur. I set the crate onto the kitchen counter, and set to working the combination. The lock released with ease, and I took a deep breath.

I pulled the lid from the crate and moved the silvery packing materials aside. With as much precision as my trembling hands could produce I slipped a blade through the inner plastic pouch. Inside, there it was, and in the very color and texture I had imagined from that graphic on the website.

My new skin.

I carefully pulled the fleshy suit from the crate, evaluating each curve and every fold. It smelled faintly of chemicals, but my research told me to anticipate some odors from the preservation process. The skin was soft and supple, clean and new. It was everything that my own skin was not. I pulled its shoulders across mine and let it hang down the length of my body. The size was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Now, the hard part. Blade in hand, I breathed deeply as I made the first cut across the length of my own arm. My head spun as I began the process of removing my old, tired flesh so that I could don my new suit.