Skin
I wake up.
Another beautiful day.
You know the best thing about living in a big city? You can completely reinvent yourself at any time. Become someone entirely new. That’s great for someone like me. I don’t like routine. I did try living in small towns at first, but the problem with that is everybody knows everyone. Once they see you as someone, you can never be anyone else but that person. I hated that. So as soon as I could I moved to the big apple, New York City. And I love it here. You can be a company executive one day, and a homeless vagabond the next, and no one even blinks. I get up. The apartment I’m renting isn’t very big, but it has everything I need, including the spare room I use for my projects. I walk over to my wardrobe, and as I do I ask myself the one important question, the only thing that matters. I do it every single morning. It’s the only routine I can bear. I stand in front of my wardrobe and I ask myself ‘who do you want to be today?’
I was a banker yesterday. I think I’ll be a florist today. I open my wardrobe doors, and I take down the two hangers labelled florist. Hanging on the first one is a bright yellow dress and taped to the top is a picture of the girl who wore it. She’s quite young, not more than 25, and pretty. On the second hanger is a perfectly peeled human skin-suit, kept fresh with my own special balms. And since it’s only a day old, the hair is still attached. I slip it on, and then zip it up at the back. Then it requires only a few adjustments, eye color and teeth shape etc. and boom! Just like that I’m someone else. I’m the girl from the photograph. The only downside to being a new person every day is that you need to be quick. If the original person goes missing for too long before I become them people start to notice and it becomes difficult to explain where I – where they were. Being a florist is quite nice. I go to work and chat with my friends and sell some flowers and chat some more. It’s quite a fun day out. But can you imagine doing it every day? That would so terribly boring. Then after work I go to my home and chat with my mother. She’s upset because grandma has cancer. I nod sympathetically when she tells me this, but I don’t care, not really. I’ve never met the woman. I’m sure the original owner of this skin would care. But dead people don’t have feelings. My new mother and I eat together. Chinese takeout food. After we finish I excuse myself to have an early night. ‘Busy day tomorrow!’ I say ‘Lots of flowers to sell’
Then I sneak out of the bedroom window and I head off to my real home, my apartment. All the way back I feel like I’ve forgotten something.
When I get back, I really am tired. I think I will have an early night. After all, tomorrow could be a busy day. I could be any of the three different people I took the other day. I’m just about to crash on my bed when I hear muffled screaming and thumping sounds coming from my project room. And then I remember what I’ve forgotten.
See I was feeling quite tired after taking three people the other day. As you can imagine it requires some effort to capture three people, and then skin them, and put their eyes and teeth in jars. I honestly didn’t need three, but variety is the spice of life, or so they say. But in my tiredness last night I remember thinking that if I only prepared two lives, I could do the third tonight. I guess that means no early night for me. I pull out a suitcase from under my bed. It contains a collection of my favorite razors and other tools. The muffled thumping gets louder. I sigh. It was the college boy that I didn’t prepare the other night. They always have so much energy.
I get out of the florist I wore today and head into my project room. Time to get to work. He’s gagged, obviously, but he does try to scream for a while. I keep cutting and cutting and eventually he stops, and breathes his last.
Two hours and a bloody mess later, I have a brand new life.
I think tomorrow I’ll be a college boy. Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.