I’ve been biting my lower lip all afternoon while trying to focus on the computer screen. It’s an old habit, a nervous tic that surfaces when anxiety overwhelms me. I feel the sharp pinch of the raised skin, the metallic taste of a drop of blood that barely touches my tongue. With my thumb and index finger, I search for the edge of the loose skin to yank it off in one go and put an end to the discomfort. I grip the tough edge with my fingernails and pull.
The tug hurts more than usual. The skin doesn’t tear; it stretches. I feel an icy line running down my chin, continuing past my Adam’s apple, and tracing the edge of my collarbone.
I jump up from the chair, knocking the coffee cup to the floor. I run to the bathroom mirror, my mouth open and my breath ragged. The torn tissue is a thin, elastic, pinkish strip that already hangs down to the middle of my chest. There’s no heavy bleeding, just a dry slit that opens along my skin like the loose seam of an old garment. I try to pull the skin away, but my fingers are stuck to it by a viscous saliva.
I pull another millimeter out of pure instinct, and the crack in my neck widens with a dull snap. At the bottom of the slit, among the exposed flesh, there are no muscles or bones. I see a deep shadow and something damp that flickers slowly upward, waiting for me to finish unbuttoning myself.
