The Pale Man

Everything is dark. It is like cave darkness; so dark I am not sure if my eyes are even open. I am sitting on something hard, uncomfortably hard. My tail bone groans for relief. I shift my weight, everything hurts. Every joint, every muscle resists movement. I begin to wonder how long I have been sitting here.

I do not remember much of anything before this point. A piece of chalk, a door where one had not been before, and a dark shadow are all my hazy mind can piece together.

My hands are resting on something in front of me. It is smooth like glass and cool to the touch. I run my hands across its surface slowly: no breaks, no cracks, no nicks, just one flawless surface. I take a deep breath, the air smells so good and excites my salivary glands. I can single out a few of the smells: cooked meat, garlic, cinnamon, and fresh bread. I am so hungry.

My hands collide with something thin directly in front of me. My finger traces the outer edge; it is round. I assume it is a plate and I am sitting at a table with freshly cooked food. I try to open my eyes but it is all in vain. I do not even feel the muscles needed to perform that function move. I raise my hands to my face.

I flinch and pull my hands away. I examine one hand with the other to find long pointed nails at the end of each boney finger. They feel thick like a ram’s horn and I doubt a regular nail clipper will be able to take them down to nothing. There is something else that causes my stomach to turn: holes. One hole on each palm with skin dangling on either side of it. These holes are shallow and do not go completely through either palm. I wonder if something goes there or if something was taken away. I raise my hands back to my face being much more careful this time.

I search for my eyes but do so in vain. All I feel is skin. Not even deep wells where my eyes should be just soft seamless skin. I begin to panic and caress the rest of my face. Two small holes where a nose should be and a lipless mouth covered in something wet and sticky. I don’t remember eating anything. I am starving.

I run my tongue over the teeth in my mouth; they are like puppy teeth. Thin and sharp like a needle. I run my fingers through my hair, or lack there of. My curls are gone and my fingers meet only skin. I search the rest of my body in a hurry. Nothing but fold after fold of skin hanging on thin bones. No muscle, no fat, just too much skin and not enough bone.

I go to put my hands back on the table but they end up on the plate instead. My plate isn’t empty. There are two round objects and I grab one in each hand. They are smooth and slippery like an olive but slightly bigger. It could be food and I think about popping this mystery item into my mouth. Why am I so hungry? Instead instinct seems to grab a hold of me and I gently place them in the holes on my palms. Hands open I raise them to where my eyes should be and now I see.

I see all. The room is warm and inviting, lit by dozens of candles and a roaring fire. The table is long and seems to be made for many to sit and dine. It is lined with a hundred delicacies from roasted pheasant to blackberry pie. There, not more than a few feet away from me, is a child enjoying the plump red grapes. It is then that hunger over takes me and I realize nothing I want is on the table. I want the child.

I struggle to get up, the skin weighs me down. The commotion causes the child to turn her attention away from the feast and horror spreads across her sweet face. Joints crack and my stiff movements make getting to my meal a challenge. She backs away and begins to run. I stagger after her longing to tear the flesh from her bone.