by Unknown
Just below my left knee, I discovered a tiny, tear shaped scar. I almost passed it by. It was faint, an absence of feature rather than a blatant disfigurement. It wasn’t fresh, had in fact entirely healed. But I had never seen it before, never once in the forty years I had lived in this body.
I forced myself to eat, carefully measuring the portions, even though I had little appetite. Dressed in loose fitting pants and sleeveless shirt, I cleared away the dishes and walked thoughtfully down to the exercise room in the basement, spent the next two hours following my established pattern, pushing each group of muscles to their limit, then slightly beyond. The routine helped to suppress the growing sense of uneasiness, shift it temporarily into some recess of my mind where I could pretend that everything was normal.
Of course you know I was fooling myself, but it’s easy to judge things like this from the outside, a lot more difficult to accept that someone has violated the sanctity of your most precious possession, your body itself.
I would normally have showered again, just a warm rinse this time, but as soon as I stopped, those nagging doubts returned. So I chose instead to jog for a while, even though it was already dark outside. There’s a heavily wooded area threaded with paths just a block from my house, not the safest place even in the daylight, but I wasn’t afraid of being attacked. There were far easier victims available and I’d never had any trouble with the scruffy punks who frequented the area.
Moving at a carefully regulated pace, I ran north until I reached the housing project, then looped back on a narrower path, one so nearly overgrown that I was forced to use my bare arms to fend off stray branches. When the parkway lights were visible to the west, I changed routes again, angling southward, knowing I would eventually cross the paved footpath that led fairly directly back toward my house. I’d never run out here in the dark before and found it somewhat disorienting, but the forested area wasn’t so extensive that there was any real chance I might lose my way.
Back home, I stripped and showered, was toweling myself dry when I found the rash. It wasn’t much of one, just a thin streak of red spots along my right forearm, almost certainly an allergic reaction to something I had brushed away from my face. The only problem with that was, I had never suffered from any allergies in the past. My skin was tough and resilient and resistant to irritation, just like the rest of my body.
That’s when I realized I was wearing someone else’s skin.
You might expect that I would have become frantic when faced with the truth, but actually I grew quite calm. Now that I had an explanation for the bizarre inconsistencies that had been showing up all day, knew that they were not signs of my own weakness, the loss of tight body control, but actually the result of a hostile act, I felt a sense of relief and prepared to deal with the situation.
Naturally my first thought was to wonder who was responsible, and why. I didn’t have any real enemies, at least not since Marie walked out on me, so it wasn’t malice. That left envy. Perfectly understandable, of course; everyone who knew me envied my body, the men anyway. Women admired it as well, but they just wanted to use it for their own pleasure, in ways that would weaken me. Marie had been different, at least when we first married; it was only later that she began making irrational demands, insisting that there was something wrong with using our bodies only for healthy, life affirming purposes.
I was actually quite relieved when she finally left.
But once the motive was understood, the number of potential thieves became bewilderingly high. There was no one I knew whose body could even begin to approach my own hard won near perfection, and frankly I doubted that any of them would be able to substantially improve their situation just by draping themselves in my skin. But jealousy is an irrational emotion, independent of logic.
Using a yellow lined pad, I quickly made a list of every male I could think of. It had to be a man, of course. Then I put check marks next to the ones who were closest to me in size, although I made the marks darker for those who bulked a bit more than me, mindful of the misfit at my waist. There were a half dozen prime candidates and I copied those names onto a second sheet, arranged in order of probability, based on my intuition. One of these men was almost certainly responsible, although there were a few others on my original list whom I could not completely rule out. The thought that it might be a complete stranger, someone who had watched me secretly and waited for a chance to strike, was disturbing, and I decided that if that unlikely explanation was the correct one, there was little I could do about it. It was far more likely that the man responsible was known to me, though, and I proceeded on that assumption.
Although I was impatient to act, it was impractical until the next day, a Friday. Two of my top candidates worked at Eblis, though not in my department. I would need to be circumspect. It was necessary to identify the guilty party without letting on that I knew of the switch.
I was able to eliminate Ned Sanders before the shift started, disappointing since I’d placed him at the top of my list. He was having a cigarette in the cafeteria, in violation of the posted rules, and I regretted the necessity of approaching closely enough that I would have to breathe that polluted air. Sanders was almost exactly my size, but soft, unseasoned. He was shop steward and the company always managed to find a way to assign him the less strenuous jobs, spot inspection, cycle counting, things like that. He saw me coming, half turned in my direction.
“Morning, Dougherty. How’re they hanging?”
I was inured to Sanders’ language, which was so peppered with obscenities that he has twice been reported to the shift supervisor by women working the line. Although I really hoped that he was the one I was after, I realized the impossibility of that when he raised his arm to wave at me. Sanders had a vulture tattooed on the inside of his left forearm.
Eric Nicholson was my third choice, and he worked the day shift here at Eblis, so I went looking for him at lunch time. He’s kind of young, but the right size, even keeps himself in pretty good shape although his posture is bad and I’ve heard that he drinks. It was hot in the cafeteria and a lot of people took their lunch outside, ate it sitting on the grassy slope that faced the cemetery.
He was there all right, lying off by himself in a patch of sunlight with his shirt off. I couldn’t have asked for a better chance. With one arm across his eyes to shut out the light, he didn’t even see me standing there, staring down at him.
What I could see of his skin was tanned, smooth, and firm, and I experienced a sense of familiarity. There were some minor inconsistencies, but I figured whatever process had allowed him to switch his skin for mine couldn’t have been absolutely perfect. Perhaps it dried out a little while in transit. The skeleton and muscles underneath had to be at least slightly different in configuration, and that would change the distribution of tautness and wrinkles, at least until the skin had a chance to adjust to its new platform. No scars, no tattoos, and the small scrape mark on his elbow was fresh, might have been done since the transfer.
I couldn’t be certain, but it seemed likely Nicholson was responsible. Now all I had to do was recover my property.
Nicholson lived alone, a small rundown house in one of the older sections of Managansett. I’d driven him to work a time or two when his car was in for repairs and although I didn’t remember the exact address, when I drove through the neighborhood after work that afternoon, I identified it easily. It was set all by itself at the rear of a lot cluttered with untrimmed shrubs, mock orange, rosebushes, lilacs, and forsythia. There’d be no difficulty approaching the house unseen once darkness fell.
I drove home thoughtfully, planning my attack.
For the most part, everything went quite well. I returned after midnight, parking several blocks away, then reached Nicholson’s back yard by a roundabout route, easily avoiding the widely spaced streetlights that futilely attempted to bring a sense of security to the neighborhood. His doors were locked but almost all of the ground floor windows were open to the night ai
r. I slipped inside so quietly I wondered if I had missed my calling in not taking up burglary.
The penlight in my pocket was unnecessary. A lamp was still glowing in the front room, a short neon tube buzzed over the kitchen sink. There were two bedrooms, both with their doors open, one piled high with junk, tools, furniture, boxes filled with off season clothing, even some canned goods. Nicholson was asleep in the other, sprawling naked on his stomach diagonally across the bed.
Almost as if he knew I’d be coming and wanted to make it easier for me.
I regretted the necessity to damage my stolen skin but by using the wrench to crush the top of his skull, I figured most of the incidental damage would be concealed under my hair. I might have to let it grow longer in the future, but I’d just increase the number of times I shampooed it to compensate. When I was quite sure that he had stopped breathing, I turned on the bedroom lights.
Obviously Nicholson had used some more subtle technique, since he had managed his theft without assaulting me. He’d have been wiser to finish me off, but I imagine he was smugly convinced that I’d never notice the difference, or if I did, that I’d be unable to figure out the identity of the guilty party.
I went outside and retrieved the ice chest I’d left below the window. Nicholson’s methods were clearly more efficient than mine, but I didn’t have time to try to figure out how he’d done it. The longer my skin spent on his body, the less likely I was to retrieve it before serious damage had been done. It was a futile effort on his part, when you think about it. Sure, for the time being he’d reap the benefits of my years of discipline and conditioning, but unless he gave up his own lax ways and poor habits, deterioration would be inevitable and he’d be no better off than before. Then I realized that logically he would strike again, find a new skin to replace the old, had perhaps already gone through this same routine in the past. I had not felt any remorse when I killed him. I mean, considering the depraved nature of his crime against me, he deserved no better. But add to that the possibility…no, the probability that I was saving many others from a similar fate. Why, in a sense, I was serving the community as well as myself, destroying a monstrous wolf lurking unsuspected among the sheep.
His skin came off quite readily under the flensing knife. I took this as further proof of his guilt; the tissues had not completely reknitted themselves. After washing it off in the shower stall, I carefully folded my skin, wrapped it in cellophane, and buried it in the shaved ice, now rapidly melting into a chilly slush. It will probably involve some experimentation to put things right, so I have returned to my own place where I can work undisturbed.
I’m writing this all down in case anything goes wrong, so that there will be a record, a warning, something to alert the rest of you to the danger. I can’t believe Nicholson was an isolated case; there must be others like him preying on the innocent. Those facelifts that actors and politicians have, the ones that are so unbelievably effective—at least some of those are probably excuses to cover up what has really happened.
There’s no doubt in my mind that I will be able to reattach my skin. I took measurements to be certain, but there wasn’t really time for it to shrink or stretch unnaturally, though I suppose it might be uncomfortable at first. Marie left behind her sewing basket, so I have needles and plenty of thread to close the seams. No, I don’t expect to have any great difficulty with that part.
It’s cutting Nicholson’s alien skin off my body beforehand that poses the challenge.
Circle of Lias
By Lawrence C. Connolly
Larry Connolly lives in Pennsylvania posing as an English instructor at Sewickley Academy, a private secondary school. Actually, he is a fine writer of some of the most intensely-textured psychological suspense we ever receive. If his first appearance in Borderlands 3 garnered him some deserved recognition, and tagged him as a writer to watch in the Nineties, then his currently offer “Circle of Lias” should solidify his status as a true craftsman. Plain and simple—this guy can write.
Sam Fric sat on the edge of a queen-size bed in the Coal Hollow Days Inn. Across from him, Cloe combed the tangles from Lisa’s drying hair. Lisa winced at each tug, jaw clenching as she said, “Please, Dad—I’m starved!”
Cloe said: “It’s not as if she’s asking you for something big, Sam. Why don’t you go and get the kid some honey buns?”
Sam cradled his chin in his hands. His palms felt like leather. When he closed his eyes, he saw Route 80. “Listen,” he said. “It’s nearly midnight. The hotel kitchen is closed.”
“Maybe there’s a Dunkin’ Donuts,” Lisa said.
“Not in this town.”
“A bakery?”
“We’re in the country, honey. The middle of nowhere. I doubt there’s anything open.”
“There’s a 7-Eleven,” Cloe said.
“I don’t think they’ll have honey buns,” Sam said.
“You could look,” Lisa said.
“Yes,” Cloe said. “You could look! It’s the least you could do after dragging us across the state for a worthless job interview.”
“I didn’t drag you.”
“No. You’re right. We made you take us. You never drag anything but your unambitious butt.”
“I don’t deserve that, Cloe.”
“And I suppose you don’t deserve being out of work.” Cloe tugged the comb harder through Lisa’s curls while Lisa, who had grown used to the tugging, stared at Sam with imploring eyes.
Sam’s car keys lay atop the TV, beside the HBO program guide that he had been perusing while Cloe helped Lisa with her shower. He had been hoping to stretch out on the bed and fall asleep while watching Sister Act, but now it didn’t look as if he would be doing any reclining for a while. He scooped up the keys and headed for the door. Without looking back, he said: “Either of you want anything else?”
“No,” Cloe said. “Just hurry.”
“Yeah,” Lisa said. “Hurry, Dad! I’m starved.”
Sam left the room. He pulled the door shut and jiggled the knob to check the latch. Then he walked on toward a middle-of-nowhere quest to satiate his daughter’s honey-bun jones.
Approaching the doors to the parking lot, he saw a large man struggling to drag a suitcase into the hall. The man looked up from his work as Sam neared the doors. Sam kept his face down, doing his best not to make eye contact as the man wiped his brow with the sleeve of his plaid jacket and said: “Hello, friend!”
Sam tried to keep moving, but the man sidestepped and extended a pudgy hand. Sam had no choice. He looked up.
The man’s grin broadened, thin lips rolling back from crowded teeth in puffy gums. “You here for the Circle, friend?”
“I’m sorry?” Sam said. He no longer said excuse me. For some reason, I’m sorry sounded much less confrontational—more sociologically correct. An out-of-work man on the interview circuit could never be too sociologically correct.
“Circle of Lias!” the man said. “I figured everyone in the hotel would be here for Circle of Lias.”
“I don’t know anything about Circle of Lias,” Sam said. “I’m only here for the night.”
“Still, it’s good to know you.”
They shook hands, Sam wincing at the feel of the man’s doughy palm.
“My name’s Parker—Parker Lewis.” The man pumped Sam’s arm. “I’m staying in 317. That sweet little woman at the front desk told me 317 was the last empty room in the hotel. Guess I’ve got control of my reality.” He winked. “How about you? How’s your life-loaf rising?” Parker wore a printed button on his plaid lapel. A ring of letters around the circumference read:
THE SWEET GAZE OF LIAS.
In the button’s center, a swirling design formed what might’ve been a staring eye, but to Sam it looked like the overhead view of a glazed honey bun.
“Listen,” Sam said. “I don’t want to be rude.” He tried pulling his fingers from Parker’s grip. “But I’m in a hurry. It’s late, my daughter’s hungry, and——”
Parker’s opened his hand. “Say no more, friend!” He heaved himself and his suitcase away from the door. “Got a daughter of my own, I do. Eight years old, and my-o-my does she love her sweets! Won’t go to bed without a gooey snack. Rots her teeth, but keeps her happy. Guess you know what I mean.” Again, Parker winked.
“Yes,” Sam pushed through the door. “Nice meeting you, Parker.”
“And nice meeting you, friend!”
Sam’s Ford Escort sat near the far end of the lot, a short distance from the quiet, four-lane road that stretched between Interstate 80 and the sleepy town of Coal Hollow. Lisa’s toys and books filled the back seat. An empty Styrofoam cooler sat on its side beneath the glass of the hatchback door. Sam always underestimated the amount of food a family of three could consume on a weekend trip.
On the dashboard sat a map showing the way to Glennvale Country Day—a school that needed a computer teacher but wasn’t interested in paying a living wage to a middle-aged man with industry expertise and three mouths to feed. If only the school’s headmaster had quoted the pay scale before the Fric family had trekked across the state, the school might have saved itself and the Frics a lot of wasted time.
Sam paused beside the Escort and looked across the road toward the false dawn of a 7-Eleven sign. The store was too close to warrant driving, and the sweet smell of the country night presented a welcome change from the stale Styrofoam-and-cigarette smell of the Escort. He pocketed his keys and pushed on. And it was then, as he approached the road, that he noticed the stickers covering the bumpers, fenders, and rear windows of the surrounding cars. He read them as he walked along:
I’M DRIVING ’NEATH THE SWEET GAZE OF LIAS
FOLLOW ME TO THE CIRCLE OF LIAS TEMPLE
HOW’S YOUR LIFE-LOAF RISING?
