Skin Deep
4-15-08

That morning I applied my makeup in thick stripes across my cheeks like Indian war paint. In a way it was symbolic, because every day for me was a battle, a battle with my skin.

I’d been suffering from terrible acne since I was a teenager, and at twenty-five my face still resembled a plate of spaghetti and meatballs with a generous helping of tomato sauce. I attributed everything I hated about my life to my acne problem: My lack of a boyfriend, my crummy temp job, my slum apartment, all of my problems stemmed from my being riddled with zits. I knew that if I could just have clear skin, my life would improve significantly.

I pondered this as I boarded the train for work that wet Friday morning. I took the only empty seat I could find and placed my purse beside me so no one would sit there. Sure enough, someone did sit there.

She was an obvious bottle blonde in a designer suit. You know the type. Her legs were long and slender, her teeth were sparkling white, and her fingernails were exquisitely manicured and painted lavender. Every accessory she carried with her was adorned in the same shade of lavender as her nails: Her purse, her umbrella, her shoes, even her cell phone was lavender. I thought she probably pissed lavender. I wanted to punch her in the mouth and make her bleed lavender, especially after she took out her lavender cell phone and started having an obnoxiously loud conversation with someone named Chrissy about the merits of high heels versus flats.

I stared at her as she chatted away. Her features were unremarkable, but her skin was pure perfection. It was clear, smooth and golden, without a bump, blemish or blackhead in sight. I wanted it.

I don’t know exactly why I followed her off of the train. I was simply fascinated by this lavender woman with her glowing skin. She got off two stops before I would have and walked a few blocks (yakking on her cell all the way) to a small office building that looked like it had once been a gas station or a Jiffy Lube. The faded sign outside read “Quincy Industrial.” Lavender went in and sat at a desk in front of a large plate glass window, giving me the perfect view. I sat on a bench across the street, which turned out to be a bus stop, the perfect cover.

Lavender did some light typing on a computer so old it could have been an Apple IIe, but mostly she just talked on the phone. At one point she stopped to eat a salad and read a magazine. Meanwhile I sat at my post, watching through the plate glass window, gazing at her perfectly clear skin. The rain started up again and heavy droplets landed on my head, but I didn’t move. My stomach grumbled, but I ignored it. I could think only of Lavender’s radiant skin, and how much I wanted it.

As the sun began to set, Lavender slipped on her coat (which was actually more of a plum color), and waved goodbye to the rest of the office. Soaked and stiff, I pushed myself up from the bench and looked around. There was a dilapidated building behind me with boarded up windows; one corner of it had dissolved into a pile of dusty red bricks. I picked up a brick and held it behind my back while I waited in the shadows for Lavender to leave Quincy Industrial.

Finally she walked out and opened her lavender umbrella, even though it was no longer raining. I followed her at a safe distance as she headed down the deserted street. She stopped at the corner and waited for the light to change, even though there were no cars around. That’s when I approached her.

“Excuse me,” I said in a hoarse voice. “Do you have the time?”

She lowered her umbrella to glance at her lavender watch and I slammed the brick into the back of her head. She grunted and fell over sideways. I hit her again, careful to avoid her face. The second blow knocked her out. I fished her lavender cell phone out of her pocket and called a cab, then hauled her into an alley to wait.

The cab arrived within minutes; as I lifted Lavender and all her accessories onto the back seat, I told the driver she’d had too much to drink. He didn’t seem to care, in fact, he didn’t seem to speak English. When we arrived at my apartment he simply pointed at the meter. I handed him a twenty from Lavender’s purse, then shoved her out onto the sidewalk.

One of my crack head neighbors was sitting out on his stoop, smoking a joint while his kid beat on a fire hydrant with a wiffle bat shouting, “Take that, Bowser!” We exchanged a look that said, “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Living in a rough neighborhood did have its perks.

I dragged Lavender and all her lavender crap up to my apartment and dropped her on the kitchen floor. She was still breathing; I would have to do something about that. I reached into a drawer where I kept a collection of sharp stainless steel knives (a gift from a well-meaning relative who hoped I might start cooking for myself instead of subsisting on Ramen and TV dinners), took out the biggest one I could find and knelt on the floor beside Lavender. I grabbed a fistful of her bleached blonde hair and held the knife under her chin. She opened her eyes. I don’t know if it was because her vision was blurred, or because she was still too out of it know what was going on, but she just stared blankly up at me as I pulled the blade across her throat.

Her blood wasn’t lavender after all, but red; it seeped out quickly over her designer suit and onto the linoleum floor, coming dangerously close to my knees. I stood up to steer clear of its path. “Shoot,” I muttered, thinking I probably should have put down some towels or something before I cut her.

Lavender’s eyes rolled and she stopped breathing. I ran a hand along her cheek and felt her silken skin against my fingers. I couldn’t wait to make that cheek mine, to feel that silky smoothness on my face instead of the icky bubble wrap texture I was used to.

I’ll admit my hands shook a little that first time I removed someone’s skin on my kitchen floor, but I think it was more out of excitement than nervousness or revulsion. All I could think about was getting that velvety soft skin off of that bottle blonde bimbo and onto my face. It was the solution to all of my problems.

Pulling off the skin was harder than I thought it would be. It was thick and heavy, and it stuck to Lavender worse than those annoying labels stick to new CD’s. It felt like a bag full of warm tuna salad in my hands as I peeled it back from her face, and the sensation made me slightly nauseous, but I recovered quickly.

Applying it to my face was even harder. The only surgical instruments I had were a travel size sewing kit from the Holiday Inn, some ice and half a bottle of Jack Daniels. I think I blacked out once in the process, and the end result was more than a little jagged and uneven (I’ve never been much of a seamstress).

Still, I was pleased with my new clear complexion. I spent the rest of the night cleaning up all the blood (hers and mine) and admiring my reflection in my bathroom mirror. When the floor was clean, and Lavender’s remains were in the dumpster out back, I relaxed in front of a re-run of Seinfeld. George was driving what he thought was Jon Voight’s car. Classic.

By Monday my new skin had begun to turn. It was crumbling off at the edges and it smelled faintly of wet rags. That afternoon I dug out my crude stitching and stuffed the skin into my garbage disposal. I checked my face in the mirror and was surprised to see that I had about half the amount of pimples I’d had on Friday, which was a vast improvement, but I still felt I needed a new skin transplant. I had nothing else to do, as I’d been fired from my crummy temp job when I didn’t show up on Friday (an irate phone call Monday morning told me as much), so I stuck my very large knife in my purse and headed out to find a donor.

It was a beauteous day outside. The sun shone brightly in the crystal blue sky, illuminating the fluffy marshmallow-like clouds; the air was warm, but not hot. Everyone in my crack house neighborhood seemed to be out cavorting on the sidewalks. Two boom boxes on opposite sides of the street played two different songs, producing a cacophony of clashing electronic beats, booming bass and rap lyrics. So much smoke hung in the air from the various lit cigarettes and joints that I could barely see three feet in front of me.

I had just reached the end of my block when someone grabbed my arm. “Any change?” Came a raspy female voice from behind me.

“No!” I snapped, shaking off her grip.

“Aw, come on, man! I need it!”

When I turned to tell the owner of the raspy voice to get lost, I glimpsed a face full of the most beautiful, smooth, clear skin I could ever hope for. The face belonged to a scrawny crack whore with a bad case of the shakes. Her hair was greasy and her clothes were stained, but her skin was impeccable. The bitch must have been born with it. How grossly unfair.

“A dollar? A quarter? Anything?” She tried again.

I couldn’t help but grin at my good fortune. “Sure!” I said cheerily. “I’ve got some cash for you back at my place. It’s just down the street. Come with me.”

A hint of hesitation crossed her face, undoubtedly the last remaining vestige of her sober self. “Why don’t I wait here while you go get it?”

“Aw, come on,” I urged. “Wouldn’t you like a cup of coffee? Maybe something to eat? I have Doritos!” I assumed all druggies ate Doritos. That’s what they were always munching on in the movies.

The crack whore glanced over her shoulder, as if someone was coming after her, then turned back to me. “I could really go for some coffee.”

“Of course you could!” I said, placing a hand on her damp (yuck!) back and gently guiding her down the street.

“You’re a nice lady,” she said with a sniff.

“Well, you know…” I replied noncommittally. If she was going to get all choked up on me, I thought, I’d give her a dollar and send her on her way. I’ve never been comfortable around tears.

She managed to compose herself by the time we arrived at my apartment. “My name’s Trisha,” she said, looking at me expectantly with her blood shot gray eyes.

“I’m Chloe,” I said. I figured it was safe to tell her my real name, as she would not be leaving my apartment alive.

I pulled one of the two metal folding chairs out from under my ancient Formica table. “Have a seat,” I said, “I’ll put the coffee on.”

Trisha sat down and smiled at me with a hint of something that might have been relief. I smiled back. “Just.. gotta get a filter,” I said. I reached into a cabinet with one hand, and into my purse with the other to pull out my knife. Trisha sat calmly at the table with her back to me, fiddling with my salt shaker (it’s shaped like a bottle of Dr. Pepper – a thrift shop find).

I held my breath as I stepped toward her with the knife behind my back.

“This is a nice little place,” she said.

“Mm-hm.”

“I wish I could afford a place like this.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I used to live in a nice house, you know. I wasn’t always—what are you doing?”

I clasped her forehead and jerked her head backward before she could tell me her life story. Her scream was cut off when my knife sliced her throat. She fell to the floor, twitching. Damn, I forgot to put towels down again. Her blood soaked her ratty clothes and formed a scarlet puddle around her on the floor.

With a sigh I set to my grisly task of removing her skin. I was able to get it off much quicker this time, and by sunset I had a brand new face, and a clean kitchen floor.

As I lugged the garbage bag containing what was left of Trisha out to the dumpster, I ran into Mrs. Callahan, my neighbor from across the hall. She stood outside her apartment door in a house coat and curlers, eyeing my garbage bag suspiciously.

“Hi, Mrs. Callahan,” I said with a bright smile.

“I heard a scream,” she replied. “Was it you?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, running through a list of possible excuses I my mind. “I.. saw a spider.”

“I see a lot of spiders,” said Mrs. Callahan. “What’s wrong with your face?”

“Sorry, Mrs. C, I gotta go. Have a good night.”

“Right.” Her glaring eyes followed me as I dragged Trisha down the stairs. I knew she suspected something, but one cantankerous old woman in curlers wasn’t enough to put the fear of God in me. Besides, there were much more questionable activities going on in our building than my taking out the trash. I witnessed at least three on my way to the dumpster.

Trisha’s skin was gorgeous, but it didn’t last long. By Wednesday it had withered and pulled away from my makeshift stitches. I peeled it off and sent it down the garbage disposal. Once again, I checked my reflection in my bathroom mirror and noticed I had less zits. The left side of my face could almost have passed for clear. I puzzled over this for only a few minutes before heading out to find a new donor.

I took a walk around my neighborhood with my knife in my purse. There were a few people outside, but they just weren’t good enough. None of them possessed that perfect, clear skin I so desired. After about an hour of walking my feet began to throb, so I went into the nearest Starbucks and sat down. The place was empty except for a pair of young women with baby carriages who were discussing diaper brands over their Crème Frappuccinos.

“Can I get you something?” Called the girl behind the counter. I looked at her quizzically and she pointed to a sign on the wall which read, “15 minute seating limit WITH PURCHASE.” Below the number 15, a 20 had been crossed out in red marker.

I rolled my eyes and pushed myself up from my chair. “Give me a small coffee, please,” I said as I slowly approached the counter, stumbling on my sore feet.

“Cream and sugar?” She asked with feigned sweetness.

“No,” I replied, “black.”

She raised her eyebrows as she punched my order into the cash register. “That’s two-fifty.”

I winced at the high price, but handed her the cash. I looked up at her face as she accepted my payment. Not bad. She had some freckles, but otherwise her complexion was flawless. I smiled.

The counter girl hummed happily as she poured my coffee. “Here ya go,” she said, handing me the tiny paper cup. “Careful, it’s hot.”

I read her name tag. “Thanks, Amy,” I said.

Amy flashed me her saccharine smile and sat back in her chair behind the counter. She picked up a thick textbook and began reading. I watched her carefully from my table until my fifteen minute seating limit was up, when I obediently went outside to wait for Amy’s shift to end. I found a rusty metal bench on the corner, sat down and put on my headphones so I could listen to Fountains of Wayne on my iPod.

It was dark when Amy finally left Starbucks and headed for the subway. What luck. Despite being highly unsanitary, a subway station was an ideal place to do what I planned to do to Amy.

I followed her down the stairs and into the dim, concrete cavern that is the subway. Only two other people were there. One was a young girl in a college sweatshirt gabbing on her cell phone; the other was a scruffy old bum asleep on a pile of yellowed newspaper.

I stood on the platform beside Amy and smiled at her. She smiled back nervously and edged away from me. I followed her until she was up against the far wall, a good distance from the co-ed and the bum.

Amy shot me another nervous glance as I came toward her, knife in hand. “What do you want?” She whimpered. I rushed forward and plunged the knife into her chest. She gasped and slid down the wall to the grimy floor. I stabbed her two more times for good measure, and when I was sure she’d stopped breathing, I set to work taking off her skin.

“Hey, are you guys alright over there?” Came the college student’s voice. Her approaching footsteps echoed throughout the station.

“Yes, fine,” I said, hastening to finish the job.

“What—Oh, Jesus!” She shrieked.

“Ow!” I jumped and accidentally sliced my finger.

The color drained from College Girl’s face as she stared aghast at Amy and me. “Oh Christ! Oh God!” She cried, clutching her stomach. “Oh—” she ran to the corner and vomited loudly. While she was hunched over I stabbed her in the back. She crumpled to the floor, but kept vomiting. I stabbed her four more times, and eventually the puke stopped spewing from her mouth.

I examined her face. Even with the vomit on her chin it was pretty nice. She had no zits that I could see, so I took her skin too. I figured I could freeze it and use it when Amy’s went bad.

The bum on the floor was still asleep. He might even have been dead too. I took some newspaper from his pile and wrapped my skins in it before stuffing them into my purse. No sense in ruing a perfectly good purse with blood stains.

When I got back to my building, Mrs. Callahan was standing in the hall in her housecoat and curlers, smoking a cigarette.

I coughed, “Mrs. Callahan, you’re not supposed to smoke in here,” I said, in the tone of a school child tattling to the teacher.

“Your purse is dripping,” she said.

I looked at my purse and saw to my horror that dark red liquid was dripping slowly from one corner of it. “Damn it!” I said under my breath.

“It’s all over your clothes too.”

I looked down; she was right. My T-shirt and jeans were speckled with blood.

“What the hell you been up to, Chloe?” She asked, taking another drag from her cigarette.

I gave her a scornful glare and coughed again. “This is a non-smoking building, you know.” I opened my door and hurried into my apartment. I could almost feel Mrs. Callahan’s eyes boring a hole through the wall.

So I had ruined my purse after all. Forty-five bucks down the drain. I tossed it into the sink and took out the skins. I rinsed off College Girl’s, tucked it into a Ziploc bag and squeezed it into my freezer between two Swanson’s chicken pot pies. Then I sewed Amy’s onto my face, just as I had done with Lavender’s and Trisha’s. It hurt even more this time because I was out of Jack Daniels. While I had my sewing kit out I stitched up the knife wound on my finger, cursing College Girl for causing that little slip-up.

On the news the next morning they said that two young women had been murdered in the subway, as part of a string of subway killings over the last two weeks. They neglected to mention that their faces were missing.

I spent the next few days browsing the want ads for a new job (I was through with my temp agency). I booked an interview for Monday, so on Sunday night I decided to put on a fresh face. Amy’s was starting to go south anyway.

I took College Girl’s skin out of my freezer and inspected it through the Ziploc bag. It looked like a chewed up piece of gum. It was shriveled and blue and covered in tiny white ice crystals. Damn it. I was not in the mood to go out and find a new face, and my interview was only a day away.

I went into the bathroom and checked my reflection in the mirror. Amy’s skin definitely had to go. It was turning an unattractive pale greenish color. I pulled it off and chucked it into the trash can, then turned back to the mirror.

When I saw my face I had to do a double-take. My pimples were completely gone. My skin was as clear and beautiful as Lavender’s, Trisha’s and Amy’s put together. I hesitantly pressed a finger to my cheek. It was as soft as a rose petal and as smooth as satin. Tears began to stream down my newly-clear face. They were tears of joy. I finally had the one thing I’d been pining for all those years. I knew all of my troubles would soon be over.

I was right. Having clear skin has been just as wonderful as I’d always thought it would be. With newfound confidence I nailed my job interview that Monday, and scored a job making twice as much as I’d been earning at my crappy temp job. A few weeks later I moved out of my slum apartment and into a spacious 2-bedroom in the suburbs. I’ve even started dating a great guy from the office named Craig who drives a Porsche.

I don’t know what made my acne disappear, whether it was my homemade skin transplants, or whether I just grew out of it, but if it ever comes back I know exactly what to do.