I stared into an empty hole full of mirrors that filled it. Yet, I wandered why I referred to it as empty. It was full of me and him; not from today, but the future. It was full of flesh that rotted and refused to be taken by even the bugs who seemed repulsed.
I finally did something that I knew would leave me repulsed, too. I traced my fingers over a skull that looked like mine. A skull that seemed to be a key to unlocking memories I chose to forget. Yet, I refuse to name them the memories. The glow that hugged it was like a faded yesterday. I think I even saw a hallow eye wink and teeth that had no lips purse as if to invite me into a kiss. I pulled it to me and pressed my lips on teeth that lacked flesh to surround it, and yet it was the softest thing my lips had ever laid itself on.
The softest memory I ever rested in resurfaced, too. It was back when my leather skin hugged my flesh in harmony. When the bone refused to let the flesh go and in a grip that meant permanent death if released.
Why does life grasp me and refuse to let me go? If it does, is my death permanent?
I think this question triggered something in me. The stitch that once held my back spun itself out of my skin, and the skin screamed. It screamed in misery, "Don't let me go, I've been nothing but good to you!"
The flesh remained, and its red hue seemed to glow brighter even as red flowered from it like the slow rush of a volcanic eruption.
"I am free from you," it whispered to skin that danced and reached for it. The skin melted and pooled suddenly, and one last sound sounded from it. The sound of death.
I feel a burning that only comes when my skin leaves me, yet even this feels much better than it is on. It was suffocating.
I think the detective is going to melt, too.
I think the only reason why he exists right now is because I haven't undone his stitch
I think I'll suffocate his stitch. Yet, he has no stitch. He has nothing for me to undo.
No, I am wrong. He has himself; I think I'll undo him.
I would do him now. I would have undid him if it weren't for the freezing cold that turned my flesh into a statute.
"Skin," the flesh whispers in a defeated beg.
The pool that had died seemed to revive and dance. It spiraled towards it, the flesh, and rejoiced.
"I can't stand the thought of you, skin. I can't stand that you hug me while I hug bone. Yet, we need you. We need you so that we may overtake him and undo him."
The flesh twitched, and its redness dimmed; life seemed to drain from it, and now it seemed to race against death.
"But flesh, what if I refuse?" I stared in agony at the man. He didn't even know my thoughts, yet I wanted him to throw my skin back at me. I don't care if this love between it and myself as a whole is forbidden. I don't care if this hate between it and my flesh is a thing meant to be ridden.
Skin, have you betrayed me, your flesh?
Flesh, have you thrown me away, your skin?
Do I, the bone, not get a say, flesh, and skin?
I am a child watching my parents argue, yet I am no kin to either of you.
The cold doesn't bother me. If the skin doesn't embrace the flesh, I will leave the flesh and drag it into this embrace.
I am tired of this argument between the two of you. I apologize, flesh. I must tear you apart to escape.
The flesh tore from the leg, buttocks, and up. It spun around and flopped until it lay helpless and frozen on the ground. The bone moved on its own and walked towards skin that tried to flow away. Yet, its bone grip pulled it. Dragging it back with it as the flesh became a coat meant to be put back on by it, the bone. The flesh wore the skin as a top coat.
Now detective, we the body without a soul target you. I think we will start by dragging your bone from you.
Silence, flesh, and skin, I tremble. I, the bone, am trembling. Something is watching us; I fear if we touch him, we may be a target for it.
Yet, bone and flesh, what do we have to fear? We will just replace ourselves with the detectives.
I feel it now bone. I, the flesh, shiver. I remember this feeling. That thing abandoned us.
We all say in unison: The soul.
Run. We should run; he should run too. I care not about his life, but I refuse to let him be tormented by that thing that willed us to be like this.
I will not grab him, but I will leave a trail. My footsteps will do. I will leave holes in the ground deep enough to fit my entire leg, and if he falls, good! He may stall the soul for us, the body.
I ran through the woods at speed, incapable of being held to be the Earth. It reacted violently by having the wind resist me, yet I pushed through anyway. I pushed through until space slapped me. I trembled, falling back onto my buttocks. Has the soul possessed me yet?
I haven't possessed you, yet. There is something that unsettled me. My own flesh doesn't welcome me. Have I abandoned it so long that its now developed its own autonomy?
Have I abandoned it so long that it fractures just from the sight of me?
The truth is, while it looks like my flesh. I know it isn't. The only thing that belongs to me is my blood that courses through it. The blood that holds my memories that it chooses to forget. It spills my blood as if I have it endlessly, but this infuriated me. I am going to take my blood back.
I might take him, the detective, too. Will my flesh chase me if I take both?