Skin is the largest organ in your body. It's huge and elastic and comes in layers that can be peeled back until you bleed. Your skin defines you to strangers. They see pigments, birthmarks, blemishes and deformities. Skin shows the first signs of the rot underneath. It changes, wrinkles and burns and scars. Skin is like a picture book on your body, full of homemade tattoos. That's why it pains me to do this, Angel. When I'm done, you won't have a story to tell strangers. There will be no face, caked with cheap makeup. I'm taking it all away. Don't scream, Angel, I won't damage your vocal chords unless I have to. Oh, I know Angel isn't really your name. The thing is, your name is part of your identity. It's the title of your story and you don't have a story anymore. You're just a machine, a framework of biceps and bones and brains and blood. So much blood. It's so rare that the skin comes off all in one piece, you should be proud of yourself. I suppose you can't be proud while you're in shock... oh well. I'm proud enough for both of us. You probably want to know why I hate you, the very essence of your being, so much that I've torn it away. Really, I thought I was rather gentle. That's not the point. I don't have a story, Angel. My story was burned away with my wife and parents in that car. My story melted away like my face. I just want to try on your story. Honestly, Angel, you just happened to be the right size. How do I look? Oh, I know it isn't perfect. Stories are made for the reader to interpret, and I might interpret you wrong. The author's intentions are always a mystery. Goodbye, Angel. Don't worry, I'll take good care of you. Of course, I'm you now, to strangers at least. You have beautiful skin...
