For most of my life I've not lived inside my own skin.
Where, you might ask, have I been all this time? And where am I now?
I've been, simply, residing inside someone else's.
I thought, until yesterday, it was the right thing to do. It never occurred to me how invasive it might be. How…insensitive.
It all began (doesn't it always?) with my so-called childhood, trying to survive in that moldy closet. I was kept as a prisoner, with only suet shoved under the door, and hardly enough room to move. I was treated like veal, like a goose for Christmas supper. The witch had arthritic fingers and a voice that could freeze your heart. Every day she'd interrogate me about my appetite, demand to feel the flesh of my thumb through the crack of the door. She had an awful temper that would flare up at a moment's notice.
It was during that time that I learned to abandon my body and live elsewhere.
Often I lived inside her skin, seeing the world through her snot-colored eyes.
Though I was never allowed to prowl her house, I knew its interior better than I knew my own breath: all the doorways and windows, her bedroom, especially her kitchen with the large wood burning stove. I anticipated her anger, and could calibrate its fury before it had begun to seethe. I discovered ways of avoiding her, of humoring her, of being especially soft when I sensed the germination of even the smallest pique.
After my escape, after I'd sneaked outside her house, I was everywhere at once. My attention was scattershot, and I saw my peril from every possible vantage. Even from the hill I could hear her snores against her pillow, saw the warty nostrils flare, and counted each snort until I was clear of her cornfield. When the owl called, I saw the receding silhouette of her house from the hollow tree. Only finally, when the wind whooshed through the woods, I released myself to the miles of freedom ahead.
It was a mighty talent I'd developed, but truth was, with such vigilance I was never free.
Always so attuned, always at the ready, keen to the moods of others, even before I knew my own. No sigh was ignored, no blink unmeasured. My fear bristled at the edges of their skin, while my flesh went numb.
Of course, in the years ahead the vain hordes adored my focus on them. No one could possibly be a more devoted listener, a more sensitive sympathizer. I had quite the reputation.
