Aunt Trudy came over for dinner the other day – except we don’t have an ‘Aunt Trudy’ and she came in the early afternoon. We all sat down at once so as to be good hosts for her. Mom let the iron burn right through the nice linens. Dad left his work call in just his suit jacket and tie, wearing only boxers. We all sat at pointed attention (backs fully straight, buttocks at the edge of our seats) for our Aunt Trudy that day. Even the dog, although she whined and whimpered, sat on her hind legs. Aunt Trudy’s thin gloss-smacked lips formed a resolute line across her face. Her fire-orange hair was up in a tight bun, stretching the skin across her face. An oversized and ironed blouse was draped over her shoulders, that appeared pointed and wing-like. Eye shadow, the shade of aquamarine and turquoise, surrounded her inhumanely murky irises. They were dark, too dark. The eyes of a shark, or something worse.
I realized then that I hadn’t blinked in minutes and, in attempting to do so, realized I couldn’t. My eyes began to feel like sun-dried tomatoes as my tear ducts emptied onto my cheeks. My sister, whom I had barely noticed was there at all, nervously scratched at the skin on her forearm until the skin was red and blood speckled. We all sat with bated breath for Aunt Trudy to tell us what to do.
It was here I thought to question this strange harpy of a woman, to run out of the house and telephone the police, to run back inside and defend my family courageously.
It was also here that Aunt Trudy snapped her fingers. We all stood in synchrony and began toward the kitchen. My mother began to knead and season ground beef for a loaf. My father hammered into russet potatoes until his palms calloused. A Caesar salad was tossed by my sister, who would previously have never been caught dead touching that sardine-filled dressing. For my part, I brought Aunt Trudy a glass of pinot noir that I didn’t know we had. The glass was teeming with the murky crimson liquid. I stepped carefully across the kitchen to bring the Aunt her drink. When I set the glass down, she smiled with pointed fluorescent teeth. Her sharp, stained fingers gripped the glass and brought it to her mouth. She sipped daintily. I got the faintest inkling to ask her what was going on and who the hell she was. Her shark eyes narrowed.
“Leave,” Aunt Trudy commanded. My feet carried me out the back door. I stood in our gray lawn, unblinking, for 34 minutes. When Aunt Trudy called to me again, I had accidentally soaked my denim with putrid urine. It had run down my leg and puddled into my shoes.
With my rapt attention, I pulled out a chair from the dining room table. My family sat before the meal with glassy eyes. Though meatloaf night was a regular in our household, I saw it in a new light. The Worcestershire sauce was lightly crusted atop the meat casserole. Tiny slices of green onion were almost hidden inside the potatoes. The croutons in the salad looked crispy and crunchy. Though we all had plates, only Aunt Trudy had utensils. I think she had put all the steak knives in her purse. Aunt Trudy carefully began to serve herself modest portions of the meal. Her wine had been replaced with something darker and redder, like velvet or ruby, but completely spoiled. Rotten.
Only once her plate was full did Aunt Trudy raise her twisted right hand to snap. Possessed, we all began to eat ravenously with our hands. Digits dug into the meatloaf. Mashed potatoes got stuck beneath our fingernails. As we all uncontrollably flapped about, one of us knocked over the salad bowl. Greasy lettuce leaves billowed onto the tablecloth, and the four of us greedily ate them up. I remembered to inhale between mouthfuls and again understood the severity of this all. My father looked a warm shade of purple, my mother could have fainted right there at the table. Behind my sister’s cold gaze, I could sense the same fury that I felt. Were we really powerless? Was I not the protagonist of my own story? I looked from the dirty plate to Aunt Trudy.
“Wwhyyrr joou djooung tiss?” I asked, mouth full of slop. Her hand slammed against the table, and, for the first time, we noticed her sixth finger.
“Stop!” Aunt Trudy commanded. “Swallow,” We all masticated upon the food we had wrought to bear. “Repeat,” Aunt Trudy spoke to me and me alone.
“Why are you doing this to us?”
My questions seemed to pierce some sort of veil between her and me, as though she hadn’t yet considered the grotesque torture of a suburban life she had no vested interest in. With consideration, she slowly rose from the seat and leaned across the table. The black of her pupils undulated, revealing a piercing orange retina, an orange like the innermost chamber of a bonfire. She was looking past my eyes and into some deeper crevice within my soul.
“I think you should peel your skin off,” Aunt Trudy commanded.
And so I did.
I stood up and began with the skin around my face, slowly working my way down. My fingernails sunk into the feathery derma at the hairline. It peeled like old wallpaper. My face and neck were the easiest. Long strips of muscle seemed to stick the most to my abdomen. My jaw clenched as I tore the skin from around my stomach, revealing the innards beneath. The heart inside of me, now exposed to the open air, beat like a hummingbird’s wings. By the time I got to my thighs, I had forsaken any uniformity with which I had exhibited before. I became ravenous and afraid. It all came off. I picked at every square inch on my legs until none was left. The bone digits of my toes rested bloodily on our linoleum. I heard a fearful whimper, but couldn’t tell if it was the dog or my father.
I looked up and saw Aunt Trudy smiling.
That was all about a month ago. Aunt Trudy left after collecting all my skin from the floor. We weren’t the only house she visited that day, and she wasn’t the only Aunt Trudy out there. Millions of families like ours had reported Aunt Trudy coming into their home and wreaking domestic havoc. Many died. Many others, such as myself, were left without skin. I feel lucky to be alive, although I know it’s strange. In these spring months, the fresh breezes pain me acutely. I look forward to showers and soaks that soothe my bloody sinew. Though my muscles flutter front and center, and though my organs flap loudly when I walk, I’m still a living, breathing human person.
At first, people screamed, and then they stared, and now they’re silent. Caught up in their own lives, trying to save their own skin.
No one will ever know when, where, or why Aunt Trudys may show up. All we can do is enjoy what we have until it’s taken away. Looking back on my life before peeling my skin off, I miss my quick facial wash routine the most. Running the hot water into my open pores, lathering my face with warm chemical suds. I would close my eyes in these skinned moments as I turned the faucet cold. As handfuls of icy spray hit my face, I gasped for breath before opening my eyes to the world I had momentarily left.
But that was when I still had skin, so, y’know.