Shed Your Skin
Shed Your Skin
A light splatter of freckles, small dots messily placed in little sections across a skinny frame. His skin marred by deformed and discolored marks, the upper front of his chest and part of his left arm turned into something like tough leather, rough and permanently changed by vicious and livid licks of an orange tongue. Along with this came swatches of raised, discolored skin, random places of his body suffering from this, though much of it was minimal compared to the mass on his chest, though the wrist of his right arm did have a noticeable imprint, as if a hand, burning and searing, had wrapped itself tightly around his wrist, burning a lasting scar in its place. A nose crooked, slightly off from what would be considered a normal position, slight whistles with every outward breath. He held a surprisingly straight gaze with his almond-shaped eyes, the gaze from his father and the almond shape of his green eyes a trait from his mother. He’d shaved his head as bald as possible instead of attempting to recover the burnt strands left behind by the flames, though, with the passage of time, his hair had returned. It was as if blonde and red had danced in the curls of his head, blending together into a light shade, like ginger, which fell from the top of his head, falling in an almost wave to barely touch his ear. The mirror, despite portraying an improved image of what he had been seeing, hadn’t granted his wish to see improved scars, or a straighter nose, and, while he actually had the ability to change it (He’d danced with multiple different faces before), the feeling of being in someone else’s skin disturbed him, and he hadn’t seen a look-a-like of himself with a straighter nose, no scars, and, if possible, perfect skin.
“Ah, to fuck with ya anyways,”
He found himself occasionally speaking out of his own head to a crowd of none, a possible bonus to his already loud-natured and rowdy attitude. Whether someone happened to be around of not mattered little, he’d speak his mind when the thought came to him. Callused hands began a slow feel across his face, large hands (For his age at least) able to overshadow thin lips and some of his unusual nose as he felt down the shape of his face. It was at least somewhat surprisingly that the dark tint to his hand and fingertips (As if his hand had been covered in coal) refused to come off onto his angular face, though it didn’t stop his cracked fingertips from feeling rough across his face, sounding like coarse paper compared to what could have been the start of facial hair. He’d stood at the mirror multiple times recently, checking himself (Normally in a pair of underwear admittedly) for healed skin or any other differences, as if his experiences had made him paranoid of changes. Yet he still only saw the damage covering a boy barely even a man, his father’s height and features attempting to fight for dominance over child-ish features, causing long arms and his awkward stance, while occasional freckles and burnt, rough skin left his almost sunburnt-looking skin odd and unsettling on a once malnourished frame.
“I ain’t believing how much I get my shit kicked in, bet I seem like a real fucking bitch ass to all the pieces of shit around here, destroyin’ fucking buildings and shit,”
His scars were his proof, his nose his battle scar. He knew how to fight, he could kick the shit out of any normal kid who looked at him wrong, big or not, he’d done it to survive for maybe about a year before he’d gotten scooped up like a missing child. Stolen food from other hungry kids, bitten holes in the arms of any bigger kid who happened to get the jump on him, spit in the eye of kids skinnier than him for a rotten-looking piece of fruit. That was before he’d gotten trained to fight too, he’d always been able to kick the shit out of people. Yet, that was for normal people, and none of these fucking monsters here were anywhere near normal. Sure, he could put up a fight, and he’d won a good few scraps with a lot of the trash who’d tried to test his shit. He could burn ‘em, nail ‘em in the sensitives, kick dirt in their eyes, make ‘em dance like a chicken if he looked at ‘em right, or show ‘em that he could look like their mother just so they knew what he’d done the night before, but he was no god here. As if realizing how old staring at himself was getting, a crude pop of his jaw followed the sounds of bones, cracking and shifting to accommodate a different shape. He’d gotten this one when they snuck him into the train. The kid had a nice parka and a good set of clothes, way better than the smoke-smelling rags he’d forgotten to change out of. One quiet moment alone, and he had blondie crisped like a strip of bacon.
“Sorry kid, but I really had to have that jacket. Plus, ya know how much I stick out right now? At least stealing your skin gets me a little less red flag, ya know?”
The kid was kinda doe-eyed, looking strange in the mirror with his soft features and untouched skin. He still retained Nylid’s curls and a similar eye color, though his hair fell blonde and seemed to carry nothing but ease, matching his baby soft hands and pale skin tone.
“Fuck kid, get a fucking tan, ya look like ya came right from the womb,”
His tone was a complete smash to the innocence he had obtained for a moment, his lips curling into a grimace. He could change himself completely with a moment to compose, adapt his dialect as he had done multiple times, but he had no intent to remain like this, still feeling the shivers being in skin not his own brought him.
“Fuck, I need to find more than just men to change into,”
Not like he didn’t have women he could change to match, but being that one was his mother and the other his sis (Fuck that was strange), he found himself unwilling to change while not wearing clothes. It’s not like he was scared to look at a woman….it was just…it was…uh…. Momma gave him manners! Yeah, manners or some shit! That was a good enough answer. A huff set free from his mouth, stark without the whistle that normally came from his nose, and his form began to shift again. Before it had even finished, he’d turned tail, stepping across the fairly empty room, reaching for the black shades on his dresser, nearest his pants and the tan parka nearby. Wasn’t hard to get completely tired of looking at that same shit in the mirror every day.
“Ah, to fuck with ya anyways,”
He found himself occasionally speaking out of his own head to a crowd of none, a possible bonus to his already loud-natured and rowdy attitude. Whether someone happened to be around of not mattered little, he’d speak his mind when the thought came to him. Callused hands began a slow feel across his face, large hands (For his age at least) able to overshadow thin lips and some of his unusual nose as he felt down the shape of his face. It was at least somewhat surprisingly that the dark tint to his hand and fingertips (As if his hand had been covered in coal) refused to come off onto his angular face, though it didn’t stop his cracked fingertips from feeling rough across his face, sounding like coarse paper compared to what could have been the start of facial hair. He’d stood at the mirror multiple times recently, checking himself (Normally in a pair of underwear admittedly) for healed skin or any other differences, as if his experiences had made him paranoid of changes. Yet he still only saw the damage covering a boy barely even a man, his father’s height and features attempting to fight for dominance over child-ish features, causing long arms and his awkward stance, while occasional freckles and burnt, rough skin left his almost sunburnt-looking skin odd and unsettling on a once malnourished frame.
“I ain’t believing how much I get my shit kicked in, bet I seem like a real fucking bitch ass to all the pieces of shit around here, destroyin’ fucking buildings and shit,”
His scars were his proof, his nose his battle scar. He knew how to fight, he could kick the shit out of any normal kid who looked at him wrong, big or not, he’d done it to survive for maybe about a year before he’d gotten scooped up like a missing child. Stolen food from other hungry kids, bitten holes in the arms of any bigger kid who happened to get the jump on him, spit in the eye of kids skinnier than him for a rotten-looking piece of fruit. That was before he’d gotten trained to fight too, he’d always been able to kick the shit out of people. Yet, that was for normal people, and none of these fucking monsters here were anywhere near normal. Sure, he could put up a fight, and he’d won a good few scraps with a lot of the trash who’d tried to test his shit. He could burn ‘em, nail ‘em in the sensitives, kick dirt in their eyes, make ‘em dance like a chicken if he looked at ‘em right, or show ‘em that he could look like their mother just so they knew what he’d done the night before, but he was no god here. As if realizing how old staring at himself was getting, a crude pop of his jaw followed the sounds of bones, cracking and shifting to accommodate a different shape. He’d gotten this one when they snuck him into the train. The kid had a nice parka and a good set of clothes, way better than the smoke-smelling rags he’d forgotten to change out of. One quiet moment alone, and he had blondie crisped like a strip of bacon.
“Sorry kid, but I really had to have that jacket. Plus, ya know how much I stick out right now? At least stealing your skin gets me a little less red flag, ya know?”
The kid was kinda doe-eyed, looking strange in the mirror with his soft features and untouched skin. He still retained Nylid’s curls and a similar eye color, though his hair fell blonde and seemed to carry nothing but ease, matching his baby soft hands and pale skin tone.
“Fuck kid, get a fucking tan, ya look like ya came right from the womb,”
His tone was a complete smash to the innocence he had obtained for a moment, his lips curling into a grimace. He could change himself completely with a moment to compose, adapt his dialect as he had done multiple times, but he had no intent to remain like this, still feeling the shivers being in skin not his own brought him.
“Fuck, I need to find more than just men to change into,”
Not like he didn’t have women he could change to match, but being that one was his mother and the other his sis (Fuck that was strange), he found himself unwilling to change while not wearing clothes. It’s not like he was scared to look at a woman….it was just…it was…uh…. Momma gave him manners! Yeah, manners or some shit! That was a good enough answer. A huff set free from his mouth, stark without the whistle that normally came from his nose, and his form began to shift again. Before it had even finished, he’d turned tail, stepping across the fairly empty room, reaching for the black shades on his dresser, nearest his pants and the tan parka nearby. Wasn’t hard to get completely tired of looking at that same shit in the mirror every day.