Skin

They say you never really understand a person until you climb into his skin and walk around in it, which is why I removed my victim's epidermis with a hunting knife and am currently wearing him like a Paris Fashion Week fur.

The ritual provides no awakening. He was a decidedly unexceptional man and is now an unexceptional corpse. Truth be told, I chose him for this reason, hopeful the blood spatters would envelop his nine-to-five, American-Eagle-khaki, Fantastic-Sam's-two-dollar-tipping, three-fantasy-football-league-playing, high-school-sweetheart-turned-overweight-wife life and leave some sort of goddamn legacy stain.

Alas, it was never meant to be. He was nothing short of normal. Normal when I immobilized him with a knife to the spine. Normal when I battered his face with his new tool set until that pulpy red head lost its identity. Normal when I pried out his eyeballs and sucked them like a couple of peeled grapes and gnashed them to a mealy explosion. 

His skin is the same color as mine. I am overcome with rage upon realizing how similar our fates really are. After the blood dries:  the five o'clock news rendezvous and then that's that. Then they forget you. And you only have to be forgotten once to get the history books boot. 

And now the only skin I'm wearing is my own. Did he ever really exist?