I moved on to clean my hip and ribs as best I could, working my way up toward my arms and face. As I was picking skin and gravel from a particularly nasty scrape on my forearm, I encountered another shiny spot halfway between my wrist and elbow. I brought my arm up for a closer inspection.
What I’d thought was glass was actually a pencil eraser-sized spot of something that reminded me of mother of pearl, creamy and slightly iridescent. I rubbed at it with my washcloth, but it wouldn’t come off. I pinched the area between my thumb and forefinger and squeezed, but nothing came out. Finally, I scraped at it with my fingernail, hoping to pick up the edge so I could dig it out. Instead, my skin rolled back the tiniest bit, revealing more of the creamy material just beneath the surface.
I sat up in the tub, an uneasy sense of foreboding swelling in my chest. I tugged at my skin, pulling and stretching it around the scrape. It slid this way and that, baring more shiny stuff, like I had another skin beneath my skin. I dug my fingernail in and pushed, rolling up a long piece of flesh. It bled a little, but I felt no pain; it would take more than that to intrude on my rising panic.
I dabbed at the blood, my heart pounding in my ears, my breath coming more quickly. As I feared, with the blood cleared, a long streak of shimmering dermis was visible along the length of my arm.
There was no keeping my panic at bay now; waves of it flooded my mind.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God!” I chanted. I thought of the scratches on my face and nausea rolled through my stomach.
I hopped out of the tub and made my way to the sink. I leaned in to look at my right cheek in the mirror. I turned my face this way and that and caught the light as it shone on more of the glistening sub-layer.
Though there were many other concerns and considerations that should’ve been a priority in my mind, the one that surfaced first was what a pariah I’d be in school if I had developed some sort of freaky skin condition. My life was far from normal already; I didn’t need anything else to set me apart from my peers.
I thought of what a cruel cosmic joke that would be, wanting to be special and ending up a circus freak.
Yeah, that’s special alright, I thought bitterly. Sounds like the type of higher power my dad would get a kick out of serving.
I thought of showing my father, asking him what he thought it might be, but considering his propensity toward overreaction when it came to all things Carson, I decided that would be a bad idea.
I moved to the commode and sat down on the lid. I closed my eyes and took several deep, shaky breaths.
“Calm down, Carson. Calm down,” I whispered into the stillness.
I sat there for several minutes waiting for rational thought to return. I knew better than to make an emotional decision. Dad had drummed that into me from a very young age.
You can’t trust your feelings, butterfly, he’d say. Or, Feelings are fickle, Carson. Don’t rely on ‘em.
I leaned on that advice now, finally deciding to wait and see what the morning brought. That was another nugget of wisdom Dad had always poured in. Everything looks different after a good night’s sleep. And usually he was right, much as I hated to admit it.
I pulled myself up by my proverbial bootstraps and went to the cabinet for some concealer. It was another of the few concessions Dad made to my being a girl. I was particularly thankful for that tonight.
I dabbed some of the flesh colored liquid on the scrapes on my face to hide the pale layer underneath then I went and picked out some winter pajamas that had full pants and long sleeves. When I was dressed, I surveyed my reflection and decided I’d pass casual inspection.
Dad and I spent a relaxing night eating Chinese food, ice cream and watching a movie. I tried to still my nerves, but I was jumpy and couldn’t wait until bed time. I used the excuse of a traumatic day to turn in early.
As I stood in front of the mirror, brushing my teeth, I let my mind run elsewhere. I rehashed the events