walk of shame
Lilith
Why is everything so hazy? It’s as if there’s dust in our eyes . . . I can’t close them.
Our eyes.
The room is quiet. I can still hear, but there’s no sound . . .
What has happened to us?
I can’t move. Can’t escape. I’m trapped. Stuck inside a host whose body is collapsing in on itself. Synapses aren’t connecting.
He’s sick. In a vegetative state, they said. His mind has shut down, severing itself off from everything else . . . They’ve
placed his body in a specialized ward for patients who are no longer in control of their own faculties.
Nobody comes near us now. Nobody touches us. When they bathe this body, they wear rubber gloves. Only sheathed hands. A latex
barrier between us and our freedom. Joke all you want, but it’s a prophylactic against possession. It’s mind-boggling to think
one can go their entire life without being touched properly. No skin to skin.
That’s all I need. Just a sliver. Why won’t anyone touch us? Hold us? Caress us? Even when they feed us, it’s done from a
distance. Through tubes. Never this tongue.
No family, no friends. No love. Everyone would rather forget this man ever existed. I’m alone on a deserted island of desiccated flesh, without any human contact.
I have no voice. All bottled up.
How long have I been inside this prison of skin? How many years, living in a room with rotting linoleum floors? A flattened
mattress. A window with the thinnest wire filaments woven throughout the glass.
I can’t get out. Can’t escape. This is worse than eternity. This is purgatory of the body. The slowest decay. How it itches.
The disintegration. I can feel it, cell by cell.
Do you know how lonesome it is to be inside a body nobody wants to touch? To feel everything but not have anything to feel?
To live within skin that nobody wants to see? I might as well be invisible . . .
I don’t exist.
Help me.
Help . . .
That itch is everywhere now. A burning sensation I can never scratch. It grows and spreads and I have no way of reaching it,
until I feel like I’m on fire. Covered in ants. All of them are chewing through this body, slowly gnawing the flesh away,
burning through.
Let me out, let me out, let me—
—out.
We wake in his bed with a start. A gasp escapes our mouth, and we worry we might wake our new friend.
So rare for us to sleep. Let our guard down, like this. The dream only finds us when we drift off in our vessel. Such a rarity
for us on so many levels. First—to sleep. Then—to dream.
Amazing, isn’t it? Dreaming? Your subconscious screaming at you while you rest? It’s not for us. For me. Dreaming. We won’t let that ever happen again.
Jordan’s still out. Good. Let him rest. He won’t wake as we slip out.
What is he? We can sense it, even now. There’s something inside him, buried deep . . .
Something darker.
We shouldn’t be here. Time to say goodbye, Jordan. Last night was fun and all, but . . .
Time to go. Bid farewell to this flesh. Our skin is too tight.
We need out. Now.
We climb out of bed, then hesitate at the sight of ourselves.
Jordan has a mirror hanging on the far wall. It’s small, just a portal into our reflection, but it seizes our attention all
the same. We can’t help but lose ourselves.
Look at our skin. This body we’re in.
Cara. Our host. We pinch at her flesh. Feel the sensation all over. The warmth of the bed slowly fading, dissipating. The
goose bumps it leaves behind.
Could we stay here? In bed, with Jordan? Just for a little bit longer?
The itch. There it is, growing. Intensifying. It’s climbing up our shoulders now, rising. We need to leave. Now. Before this
body becomes unbearable and we begin to burn.
Gotta go
go
go
The morning light finds us. Blinds us. We wince, almost hiss, at its seething heat. We close our eyes and feel the singe against
our skin.
Jordan offered us quite a ride, but we shouldn’t have stayed. Already we feel the itch. Our dream still lingers, those infinitesimal
flecks of it crawling across our skin.
This body will not do, this body will simply not do. That persistent itch grows. The constriction of sinew. Every muscle tightens,
a snake coiling around us, squeezing.
We want out. We need to escape. Break free before these bones lock us inside.
Leave. Now. But . . . where do we go?
Into whom?
The street outside Jordan’s apartment is busy at this early hour. Wandering bodies pass us by. All we need to do is reach out . . . and touch someone. Hitch a ride.
There. A man in a business suit wanders along, talking on his phone. See how he sweats. That pale pate glistens, the thinning
hair clinging to his temples.
He’s not looking at us. Not watching where he’s walking. “I don’t care what your lawyer says,” he barks into the receiver.
“I’ve got weekends. That was our agreement.”
He doesn’t see us at all. To him, we don’t exist.
Perfect. He’ll do. For now.
“It’s called shared custody,” he continues as we close in. “You have to share.”
Yes, share. My thoughts exactly.
Our fingers find his bare skin. Just a gentle caress along his wrist. He’s barely aware we even do it—touch him—so focused
on his phone, he hardly knows that we are there.
“I’m not going to let you walk away with our—”
I slip in.
There is no pain. No jolt of electricity. I am nothing more than a whisper from within. A voice that beckons from the darkest
recesses saying—
Let me in . . .
All else fades.
We halt. Disconnect our call. Whoever is on the other end means nothing to us.
Possession is fluid. Possession is so wet. I flow from one vessel to the next with the ease of a pitcher pouring water from
one receptacle to another. I simply . . . drift. Swim. I’ll pass through the barriers of flesh and bone and make myself at
home. Settle in. Get cozy.
But I don’t like this vessel. I can sense it straight away.
A port. An aperitif. Too sweet. We are not a good fit.
His body sags. Bulges. The heft of him slows us down.
His veins are clogged. Our breath is labored, a wet drag in the chest. Cement.
Our new host is not long for this world.
Listen to him, the acidic undertones, his mind marinating in resentment, the world owes him, the world passed him by, sour grapes in his belly, looked over for that promotion, you fucking bitch, what do you mean you don’t love me anymore, it’s all there, boiling over, all the fantasies of wrapping his hands around Joan’s throat and squeeeezing . . .
This need to escape only grows. It intensifies as our muscles strangle us, tightening their grip. Each rib within our chest
now feels like a fist grabbing hold.
The itch has followed me, even in this limp receptacle. We feel that incessant burn crawling across our skin, fire ants weaving
over our arms, our legs, inside our skull.
We feel it from within, this burning urge to run. I need out of our body.
Out of this skin.
Now.
I need to free myself. Divest myself, and fast. Otherwise, we’ll claw out our own eyes. Tear through our flesh in front of
everyone on the street. Ram our head against the nearest wall, smashing our skull into a bloody pulp against brick.
I need to escape. Need to find another—
There.
A woman walks her dog. Her arm extends out at her waist as her tiny companion guides her along, eager to roam. We understand
that feeling. This woman’s head is held high, soaking up the sun as she walks, almost as if she were aware of the wandering
eyes upon her. Her eyes are barricaded behind sunglasses. She wishes to be seen. Ogled. Revered like a saint, as if her presence
were enough for worship. The flesh is never enough.
She’ll do just fine.
“Excuse me, miss,” we say in our most even tone, not wanting to startle her.
This woman—short, cropped hair, olive skin, a fabricated tan—stops, then turns toward our voice.
She has never met us before. We are a stranger to her, so we must act accordingly.
Her hesitant expression is a testament to this woman being more attuned to people looking, not actually talking to her.
She would rather be seen, not spoken to.
Not so much of a saint, then, but merely the statue of one. A false idol of the flesh.
We’ll show her what wonders come with worship.
“Did you drop this?” We hold out our own phone to her, this unused thing.
The woman looks down, now curious. Clearly, it’s not her phone. It’s enough. Here is our opening. Our aperture. We take it.
Our fingers barely graze the length of her hand and—
I slip in.
There. That’s more like it. A better fit. Much better than the body before.
We breathe freely now, no longer encumbered. That man’s petty resentments have festered over the years, blaming the world
for his failures—as a father, a husband, an employee, a human being, an insect in this anthill. He’ll suffer from a heart
attack before long, but that is not our concern. We are free of it. Free of him.
Our fresh flesh fits so much better. Snug as a bug in a rug. A rosé. Light-bodied. Pink-hued from its limited exposure to the grape skin. First order of business: release our pet. The
dog bounds along the sidewalk, now free. We turn and walk in the other direction.
We are now unleashed as well, at last.
There it is again. That itch. Even in this skin, the seething sensation creeps up on us, a slow but steady burn in our sinew.
Everything tightens. The snakeskin constricts.
This body is no longer a perfect fit.
Just listen to her yearning. It’s so loud. Abandoned by her husband, abandoned by her boyfriend, her lovers, everyone eventually lets go, throws me away, who’ll ever love me, when am I ever going to find someone who will want me for who I am, oh God, I’m going
to be alone forever, aren’t I, it’s true, it’s true, I can feel it, oh God, don’t let me die alone—
Her self-doubt stuns me, an endless tide of anxiety. Of shame. It’s so loud. A downright din. I can’t escape it. I need to free myself. Get out of this suffocating skin.
An elderly woman sits on a park bench. It appears as if she is alone. Abandoned in this park. Her eyes possess a particular