It happened first in the shower. Sasha stood, scrubbing her body, her mind occupied on the day, on when the man might be answering her earlier text when—just as easily as one might tear a page from a book—the skin on her forearm peeled off. What was most curious was the brevity of it; how it came off quickly, painlessly, as though she were some type of amphibious being shedding her top layer. As it happened, Sasha felt only a passing coolness, like a breeze had blown the skin away. And when it was gone, it didn’t bleed. All that was left was a fresh pink scar.
She stared in silent shock at the skin dancing and swaying around her feet as the water pressed down upon it. She turned off the water and stepped out of the shower and toweled off, applying a burn cream to her arm—the only thing she could think to put on, fumbling for a first aid kit unused and tucked away in a back cabinet. It felt like nothing when it went on, just like rubbing lotion onto clean skin.
Published by The Bangalore Review