Skinthief

By Cassandra Hamm

I stiffen as the mold tightens around my body, compressing it into a different shape. My breath comes hot and fast. It’s not like I was wearing my own skin anyway, but that doesn’t stop me from panicking. My mold is in Vernon’s safe, locked away for when I have further use of it—meaning when I stop working for him. Which, at this rate, may be never.

The mold cracks open. I’m free and wearing a different skin.

“Come with me.” The officer doesn’t even blink.

I follow him into the hallway. My long legs eat up the space—much better than yesterday when I was short. At least they haven’t made me be a girl yet. Not sure I could pull that off.

We enter the holding room. Cassius Huxley has stopped pounding on the walls of his glass cage and sits slumped on the floor. I know his mannerisms better than I remember my own; he paces when he’s excited, runs his hand through his thick hair every few minutes, and has ever-twitching fingers. I give my own fingers—now long and brown—a little twitch, hoping soon I’ll be able to do it as easily as lying.

Cassius meets my gaze a heartbeat before recoiling. “Who are you?” he gasps. “You’re—you look like—”

“You, I know. I’m wearing your skin.” The words slip so easily from my mouth that it’s easy to imagine this is right.

“You won’t be needing yours much longer,” the officer says.

Cassius’ fingers twitch halfheartedly, as though that statement has sucked all the vibrancy from him. It should suck the vibrancy from me, too, but it doesn’t. Not anymore.

The officer opens the glass cage. Cassius lunges for the door—good for him. The officer knocks him back with a bloody temple and a stunner to his throat.

Once, I might have been shocked. But that was Nicolae Turek, not whoever I am now.

“Don’t try anything stupid.” The officer withdraws the stunner without delivering a shock, straps Cassius down so quickly he doesn’t have time to protest, and turns on the memory-extractor, which lets out a low hum.

They already sucked Jarvis Yocum’s memories from my mind. He had been such a boring man—minus the millions hiding in his safe that I handed to Vernon. It’s hard to feel bad that he’s gone.

What if they decide to take Nicolae Turek’s memories from me? I’ve seen it happen before when Vernon wants to punish an errant skinthief. Without those memories, who would I be?

The officer takes one of the tubes connected to the metallic contraption and jabs the pointed end into my skull. I wince at the familiar pain. He inserts the other end into Cassius’ head.

Screaming, Cassius jerks wildly, but the straps hold him fast.  “This will only take a moment.” The officer presses a button on the memory-extractor.

Scenes pour into my head. A sleek mansion with frosted windows. A brown-skinned girl with eyes like the moon. A safe with a particular combination.

I hate myself for smiling.

“What are you doing?” Cassius clutches his head.

The officer watches the screen. “We’re making a copy of your memories.”

“No—no!”

Cassius’ cries come too late. I can slip in, take the jewels from the safe, and slip out of Cassius’ skin into someone else’s.

Then no one will ever see Cassius Huxley ever again.

I keep the pain trapped inside my foreign skin as the officer detaches the memory extractor and removes a cleansing capsule from his pocket. I place the capsule in the gaping hole in my new skin; it crystallizes, clearing away the blood and healing the skin with only a slight sting.

Cassius lies on the floor, wailing. We are taking everything from him—first his skin, then his memories, soon his life.

I’m sorry, I wish I could say. They stole everything from me, too.

But I’m the one who will live on, if one can even call this existence “life.” I hurry toward the door, snatching Cassius’ discarded clothes—now he wears the prisoners’ red—from a table.

“Where are you going?” the officer says.

“Changing.”

“You’d better be quick. Vernon expects you to be ready in ten minutes.”

I hurry through the black-tiled hallway, avoiding the gazes of my fellow skinthieves. It’s not like we wear the same skins long enough to recognize or care about one another.

I scan the chip in my wrist, and the door slides open. My room is bland: gray walls, no decorations, no personal items. They won’t even let me keep my mold here.

It’s been five years since I’ve seen my face.

Exhaling, I set Cassius’ clothes on my bed and pull my stunner from its holster. At the press of a button, it transforms into a lhanga, thin and hollow. Mother made it for me. Maybe she guessed my debts would drive me to Vernon. I don’t know.

If I saw her now, would she care? Or would my stolen skin drive a wall between us even blood could not cross?

My hands shake as I pull the instrument to my lips. Everything is jumbled, right and wrong, real and false. I’m wearing another man’s face, doing unspeakable things, destroying lives—all for money. And what have I gotten for it? The debts aren’t paid yet, and the debts I’m incurring in my soul may never be satisfied.

Is Nicolae Turek really in there, or has he been swallowed in another man’s skin?

I blow softly into the lhanga. A low, mournful note escapes the reed’s mouth and rattles the deepest part of me. My fingers dance across the holes, each tone clearing my mind. A bittersweet melody surges from the deepest part of me and escapes into the air, stilling my soul.

That came from me. Nicolae Turek.

I know who I am again.

And Nicolae Turek won’t let Cassius Huxley die without a fight.

Can you guess which song from the 1990's inspired this story? Share in the comments!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cassandra Hamm is a writer who has always been fascinated by the inner workings of the human mind. She received her B.S. in psychology and continues to apply her knowledge to her characters. She is a Community Assistant for the Young Writers Workshop and teaches at Young Writer Lessons, both of which are affiliated with The Young Writer.

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