Likeness of Skin

"What do you know?" Chris grunted, thumb caressing the jagged scars on his wrist. On the beaten-up couch opposite of him sat one of the stereotypical smart, popular girls in school: Ellie. With the halter top and shorts she wore, there was not one trace of a blemish on her perfectly porcelain skin, he could tell.

Ellie blinked, putting a strand of her brown hair behind her ear. She set aside her German text book – they were supposed to do a project for their foreign language class together – and stood up. "Where's your bathroom?"

Chris stared at her, deadpanned, for a good minute before she huffed. "C'mon, get up and show me where it is!" She had to glare at him before he sluggishly stood up and made his way to the hallway outside his room.

"There." He pointed to a barely opened door, cheery blue tiled wall peeking out. Ellie gently gripped his wrist, to be careful of the scars and bruises, and was about to drag him to the bathroom when he snatched his hand from her grasp. She sighed.

"If you won't let me drag you, then just follow me." She was not sane, he decided. Any sane person would understand that he did not like to be touched in any way, shape, or form. She continued to glare at him when he didn't follow her and was about to make a comment when he slowly walked over.

Satisfied, Ellie grabbed a few pieces of toilet paper, ran it under water, and turned to him.
"This is the power of make-up." Before he could snort at the weird comment, she wiped the wet toilet paper across the length of her arm. She wiped off a layer of skin colored…stuff – make-up, he guessed – and underneath was skin the same shade, aside from the ugly purple, yellow, and blue bruising. After she finished cleaning her arm, it exposed a myriad of blemishes. There were many hand-shaped bruises, the pattern looking as if a meaty hand had crushed her thin arm.

She didn't expect Chris to say anything, to do anything. And he didn't. He just stood there, staring at her arm, just as she did his.

They both had their demons, he understood; Ellie was just better at covering up hers.

"See," She began softly, "the likeness of our skins." To emphasize her words, she gripped his wrist again and brought it up. This time, Chris did nothing. She gazed sadly at their arms before looking up and into dull, but resilient, turquoise eyes. "It means that, as long as we both are living, we need to be strong."

He opened his mouth to speak, to question the presence of the 'we' in her statement, but she blatantly cut him off. "Those with skin like ours…we're not rare, but we're usually alone. We prefer to suffer alone, to die alone." Now she gripped his hands, tears stinging her eyes. However, she wasn't really talking to him. She was talking to herself. "And that can't happen."

The question of her sanity was definitely out the window, as he officially deemed her insane. But when she came back to earth, to Louisiana, to Chris's bathroom, she looked straight at him with pleading eyes. "I've been alone with this for way too long, and I'm sure you're tired of being alone with this too." She intertwined their fingers, neither really understanding what it meant. But he stood there, visibly indifferent, as she continued.

"Only…only someone with our likeness can understand-"

"I don't need someone to understand." He finally said, firmly. Ellie's eyes narrowed for a second before slipping her arms around his shoulders.

"Then I won't ask to understand. All I ask is to be able to bandage you up, to help heal the wounds. No one else needs to die."

And she stood there, gripping him with all her might, with her face in the fabric of his tee shirt, trying not to cry. Feeling her body quake, Chris tentatively put an arm around her waist, hoping to calm her down.

He caught a glimpse of their reflection in the mirror. Her naked arm was visible, and, after comparing their arms, he could understand the likeness of their skins.