“No! Wait!” I shriek.
Eddie completely ignores me, his attention elsewhere. He hands Mary the hooked pruning knife and she accepts it with a thankful nod. Without hesitation, she takes the knife and—
My eyes break away, unable to watch the mutilation as a nauseous wave hits me. I realize now that my breathing is twice as fast as it should be.
When I finally muster up the strength to look back, I’m greeted by a sight even more terrible than the one I expected. Mary Fimi has successfully carved off a huge strip of her own skin, the dermis peeled away in a curling pink flap that’s approximately the width of her knife blade and longer than a foot. She’s still smiling, but tears are streaming down her face as her body reacts to an experience that her mind is not yet fully allowed to grapple with.
It’s not just the flaying that prompts my revulsion, though. Mary has handed one end of the bloody strip to Eddie, and although he’s mostly facing away from me,I can still tell what he’s doing by the movement of his head and the position of her arm.
As if psychically aware of my observation, Eddie turns his head slightly, and I can see the crimson flap dangling from his lips as he chews and chews and chews.
Eddie is eating her skin.
“Oh my fucking God,” I gasp, unable to keep the words from tumbling out.
Is that what he’ll do to me?
I immediately push the thought to the side, though what I’m left with is no less terrible. I’m witnessing something else, a need well beyond the limits of my understanding. Eddie may have been lying about his quest for some devilish supernatural ritual when we first met, but he wasn’t stretching the truth that far. These acts areritualistic, but the motivation seems far more primal—biological even.
A realization manifests from the broken conversation fragments that span our evening. Eddie is gaining strength for something, like a caterpillar preparing for its chrysalis, and he all but revealed what thatsomething is. I don’t have a lock on the details just yet, but for now the details don’t quite matter.
What matters is this: I’m about to be Eddie’s next host.
I glance back into the bedroom to find that Mary has carved off another band of skin, methodically slicing her way around her arm as pumps of fresh blood spill onto the floor. She hands the band to Eddie, who’s now perched on the edge of the bed, and he immediately gets to work cramming the fleshy roll into his mouth. Eddie eats withravenous enthusiasm, tearing his way through it with grinding, red-stained teeth.
Don’t focus on what’s happening now, focus on the next step.
I create a mental space and lay out my shreds of information, desperately hunting for understanding. Eddie is gearing up to transform. I’m not surehowthis movement from one body to the next will occur, but I’ve finally figured outwhy. He’s been around for hundreds of years, and every time a host body dies, he needs to find a new one for survival.
No, that’s not it.
That’s not the whole picture.
I recall my numerous conversations with Eddie over the course of the evening, imagining what he’d say in response to each of my desperate theories. According to Eddie, there’s something even more important than survival, or at least, equal to it in the broad cosmic scheme of things.
Eddie didn’t pick me from his basket of genetically valid host children because I’ve got a stronger heart or fuller lungs. He picked me because I’ve got the best odds of carrying on a much more important tradition. If given the chance to shine, I can sing, dance, model, and act with ease.
I have the body of an entertainer.
My eyes flick over to my knife, which Eddie tossed haphazardly onto the couch. He was so frivolous with it, knowing I couldn’t do any real harm to his decaying suit of flesh with this silly little blade, but he forgot one very important thing. It’s not his flesh that matters right now, it’smine.
I try scampering toward the blade, but quickly hit the limits of my cuffs as my wrist yanks backward. I don’t relent, though, pulling hard against the metal and stretching out with my free arm. The knife is too far away, but if I tug hard enough, maybe I can drag the coffee table ever so slightly across the rug. My wrist burns as I heave all my weight against the tiny metal ring.
Mary’s voice drifts softly from the other room. “I don’t feel so good,” she admits. “I think I’m gonna faint.”
“That’s alright,” Eddie replies. “I’ll just take over when you do. Let’s get a piece from your stomach now, huh?”
I tug again, and again, and again. I’m mostly just bunching up the rug, but every lurch brings me the slightest bit closer to the finish line.
With one final scoot, I reach out and grab the steak knife. A sense of relief immediately washes over me—job well done—but this feeling quickly dissolves as I gaze down at the blade and realize what I need to do with it.
“Aw, fuck,” I groan, noticing now that my hand is trembling. “I can’t … I can’t.”
My head involuntarily begins to move from side to side, body protesting against brain, and in this moment I catch sight of myself in the standing mirror across the room.
I freeze. Between thousands of video uploads and seemingly endless time in front of the mirror, I know every inch of my face. I know the gentle slope of my nose and the spacing of my cheekbones. I know the exact shade of red that runs through my hair, and the way it changes when I’ve gotten a lot of sun. I know the placement of every freckle.
This face has cultivated both opportunity and allconsuming narcissism, a double-edged sword that I’ve wielded my whole life. Still, looking at myself in the mirror this one last time, it feels like I’m saying goodbye to a friend.
