Skin Deep

Flawless

A nervous laugh escaped my mouth and I retreated into my thoughts. How long ago was it that Ben said he was bitten? Shit. I needed to make an appointment with a dermatologist, like, immediately. My arm was already itching so badly that I didn't think I could stand it. The thought of it getting any worse was scary. But to think that it could get to the point of causing me to do something like that, or what the homeless guy did? That was terrifying.

When I walked back home, I took a different route and started looking up dermatologists in the area. I called the first one listed. They couldn't see me for a whole week, but I booked that appointment just in case. Good thing I did—the next five offices I called couldn't get me in for at least a month. A week would just have to do. I was going to need some sort of relief in the meantime, though.

I stopped at a drugstore and bought a tube of lidocaine cream. Sure, it wouldn't fix the underlying issue, but it would buy me some time until I could be evaluated. More importantly, it might help protect my flawless skin from being tarnished any further. I know I sound like such a superficial bitch. But, it wasn't just that I was conceited; my livelihood hinged on being so. This was my career at stake.

As soon as I walked back out onto the street, I quickly opened the tube and smeared a massive glob of the cream onto my arm, carefully smothering the spot and the entire area surrounding it. Relief. Finally, I let out a heavy breath, and my eyes almost rolled into the back of my head as the sensation of normalcy returned to my skin.

"Fuck yes," I whispered.

I threw the cream into my purse. Then, just as I looked up, I saw an old woman clutching her handbag close to her body. She was just standing there, staring at me with wide, judgmental eyes. She flinched slightly when I made eye contact with her.

"Mosquito," I told her.

The symptom had faded, but thoughts of what the cause might be began to creep back up to the surface. I wondered, whatever this thing was, was it contagious? Shit. It had to be. Running into two other people who just happened to be experiencing the same unbearable itching on the same arm as me, and on the same day? That was just too much to write off as a coincidence. Something weird was going on; I wasn't sure what exactly it was yet.

When I returned to my apartment, I bit the bullet and called my mom back. I wish I hadn't. She wanted me to come to the house and sit with my dad for the night—something about having to visit her sister out of town. My dad has early-onset dementia and can't be left alone. I tried to tell her that I had some sort of skin issue going on, but she wasn't having it.

"It's just one night, Avery. God—can't you think of anyone besides yourself for once?"

Several reapplications of the cream later, I packed an overnight bag and started heading there around 5 PM. With the itching on pause and my arm now numb, I was freed up to focus on worrying about spending the evening alone with my dad. I wasn't sure I'd be able to handle him. He's quite a large man, and while his mind operated on a less-than-functional level, his body certainly didn't. He could still easily overpower me if 'the voices' instructed him to do so.

My dad's always been a little kooky, even before the dementia set in. Deeply paranoid, always thinking someone is out to get him. Conspiracy theorist through and through. I was convinced he had schizophrenia, but he'd never been formally diagnosed. You can probably imagine how well the dementia helped with all that. I'd just have to ignore his ramblings and hope that nothing I said or did would set him off.

My mother rattled off his list of medications and when to administer each, then told me to use the cash she'd left on the counter to order pizza. Then, she hurried out the door and left me with the man I'd spent most of my life avoiding being left alone with. I stood there, staring through the opaque pane of that closed door until I heard his scruffy voice call out from the living room.

"Sandra!"

"She left, Dad. It's me, Avery."

I walked into the room to find him sitting in his recliner. He turned his attention away from the TV, and his eyes softened.

"Avery! Baby girl, how are you?"

"I'm good, Dad. How've you been?"

"Well, for one, those Goddamned aliens have been some busy motherfuckers lately, I'll tell ya that much."

Here we go.

"Oh, yeah?" I asked. "Replacing the world leaders with fish people again?"

"Lizard people, Avery! Jesus H. Christ!"

"Oh, right. Sorry."

I needed to quickly change the subject before it escalated.

"So, Mom left us some money to get pizza. Are you hungry now, or do you want to wait until later?"

"Whatever you'd like is just fine with me, sweet pea."

Psycho.

I felt bad for thinking that. I knew he couldn't really help it, not anymore, at least. But the glimpses I'd get of his former self only served to further my distrust of him. What I'd like is to get this night over with as quickly as possible. It felt like the itch was going to return any minute.

"Pepperoni's okay?" I asked.

He nodded and smiled.

I dialed the number of the closest pizza joint that delivered and ordered a pie. I asked the guy on the phone to please tell the delivery person not to ring the doorbell. Either he didn't get the message, or he didn't care, because 30 minutes later, that familiar chime suddenly echoed through the house.

"Who the fuck is that? Who's there?!"

"It's just the pizza man, Dad. It's okay, I'll get it."

"Don't let that son of a bitch inside! He works for them! Just slide the money under the door and tell him to hit the fucking road! I'm onto his kind."

I opened the door to a very nervous and pimply 16 year-old kid gripping tightly onto the pizza box. He must've heard the shouting. I wasn't about to complain about him ringing the bell—I just wanted to complete this transaction before my dad decided to get up and see if I'd followed his instructions. I threw him the $20, told him to keep the change, and grabbed the box, shutting the door before he could even say thanks. Then, I brought it into the living room and set it down on the coffee table.

"Got it!" I said. "And don't worry, he didn't get inside."

"Good. You slid the money under the door like I said?"

"Yep," I lied.

"Works every time."

I rolled my eyes, grabbed his TV tray, and set it in front of him. At that point, he began watching me intensely. I thought maybe he was just really hungry. But as I walked away to grab some plates from the kitchen, his eyes followed me the entire way, growing wider and wider. Fuck. He's probably just going to get more unhinged as the night goes on.

When I returned with the plates, his eyes were waiting for me at the doorway. I sighed and looked over at the clock on the wall. Only a few more hours, then I can give him his medicine and lock myself in my room for the night, I thought. I grabbed two slices from the box and plopped them down onto his plate. Then, when I set it down onto his TV tray, I realized exactly what he'd been staring at.

Without warning, his massive hand lunged out. He grabbed my left arm hard, pulling it closer for inspection. I stumbled forward, trying to stop my body from being pulled into the tray. His eyebrows climbed up to his hairline, and his mouth slowly dropped open as he gawked down at my wrist. My heart dropped. He'd noticed the spot, and he was not happy about it.