I was in my small room up in the
Frozen North, except all the
furniture had been rearranged and the
bed was in the
center of the
room. You were on it and I was helping you
shed your skin,
peeling it off in
large pieces. It felt like
thin,
warm, dusty
latex but didn’t have much
stretch to it. Underneath your skin had a
yellowish cast to it, and was slightly
mottled. Your body looked like that of a
young girl, as if is shedding your
skin you had also shed many years off your life.
When you were free of your old skin I touched you but you squirmed and gasped under my touch as if it was painful. You then turned over and I saw on your back small things that looked like wings. They were made of the same skin that covered you body, and they fit against you back like a beetle's shell. They moved slightly but were still attached to your back in places. I knew that they were not supposed to look like that and I suddenly felt a welling up of sadness as I realized you would never fly.