Skin

In the weeks after her mother died, Pamela had no skin. Everything was surface—every twitching nerve, every gush of bile. When Creepy Carl told her to smile as he dropped off his rent check, her lips peeled back to the bone.

At home, she told Ben: I know about the girl you’ve been fucking for the last four months. Your intern. In our God damn bed.

Come on, baby, he said, it wasn’t like that.

But it was. She wouldn’t have her raw insides sheathed in lies. She slept in the guest room, on top of the blankets, oozing resentment.

From Guest Contributor Carrie Cook

Carrie received her MA in Creative Writing from Kansas State University and is currently living in Colorado. Her work has appeared in The Columbia Review, Midwestern Gothic, Menacing Hedge, and Bartleby Snopes.

Nerve

She waited in the closet while tightly clutching the letter opener to her chest. She'd never killed anyone--never come close really, unless you count the car accident and she'd been drunk so she never did. But she was going to kill Stan, or at least hurt him really bad. She knew she had to do it quickly, as soon as the door opened, because if she saw his face she'd lose her nerve. Not that he didn't deserve to die, but she'd be too scared.

She heard footsteps, so she stood next to the door, her whole body tense.

Part Twelve