What makes a human if not the flesh upon their bones? (Originally submitted here. Also this story function as a semi-sequel to “Pretty Eyes”)
I Am Human. I Am Human
I am human. I am human.
I think as I look at myself in the mirror. Staring back at me is the same face I’ve been wearing for decades. It might not have aged, at all, but it’s still my face. It deserved to be my face since I’ve worn it longer than she ever did. Young, pretty, unscathed. I look at my high cheekbones, small nose, and thin lips. This face would have aged and withered if she still wore it. I preserved it.
I am human. I am human.
I pull at my hair. Still holding strong. Long and full and taken from a glamor model back in the early 60s. I’ve worn many follicles throughout the decades. Taking them from many men who would have bald anyways, but when I saw her hair I knew I had to take it. The old set did not go along with this face, and yet I wore it for twenty years like some sort of heathen with no sense of style, wearing male hair with a face like this. What a horrendous mistake.
I am human. I am human.
I pinch my skin. I let out a small “ouch” this skin’s a sensitive one. Still getting used to it. Two crescent slivers remain where I pinched. They fade shortly after release, but a dull pain lingers. Just like it should. I think. New flesh, only been on my bones for five years. Got it off of Tinder. I originally swiped right on her eyes, her beautiful ice blue eyes, like a glacier. But when I brought her home I couldn’t just take her eyes. So I took her skin as well.
I am human. I am human.
I say as I look at my eyes. As bright and beautiful as an emerald. Such beautiful eyes. My prized eyes. I have many of them, eyes that is. Hundreds in fact. I grow attach to faces. I like wearing hair like a favorite hat. The skins I’m in are like t-shirts that I’ve grown too attached to over time. But I can never pick what eyes I want. I collect them like jewelry, always trying to pick the right one for the right occasion. My room is stacked with jars and jars of eyeballs collected dating back at least a century. Some might call me a hoarder, but I consider myself a connoisseur. And when it’s time for a new set, well, the modern world of dating apps have made that much easier.
I am human. I am human.
Other of my kind would say I’m too obsessed. Too attached to mankind. I don’t agree, because I am not my kind. As they always say: if it looks like a human, walks like a human, it is a human.
I am human. I am human.
I smile as I pull out my phone, looking for another set of eyes to add to my collection.
