Beneath His Stolen Skin

Chapter 1: The Tenant Upstairs-3

How uncanny it was for Nolan that he believed that Zeb resembled his precious and lost Peter. Both had the same color of bright blue eyes, blond hair, and frames. Both were the same age—Peter was twenty when he passed three years ago. Both enjoyed movies and reading. Both desired their alone time and privacy. And both were interesting on various levels. At points in his daily life, Nolan believed he was spying on his lost boyfriend opposed to the tenant who lived on the second floor. How strange it seemed that Zeb Thursday entered his life some three years (almost to the day) after Peter’s demise. How inexplicable.

On July 4, Nolan was discovered inside his kitchen with a half empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a shot glass, though it wasn’t even ten o’clock in the morning. Zeb walked into the kitchen with his Mets baseball hat on, a tight long-sleeved sky-white shirt, and sheer black gloves over his hands. He made eye contact with Nolan. The tenant had found his way downstairs in search of his breakfast, Nolan imagined, which was a rare occasion—a bowl of cereal with skim milk, sometimes adding a sliced banana. He stood frozen in front of the Kenmore refrigerator and displayed his muscular chest. Rounded pecs and pointed n*****s were outlined in the cotton material. He said to Nolan, “You’re drunk.” His deep voice echoed within the room, which resembled an older man with much experience regarding life.

Nolan looked up from his empty shot glass and whispered, “You’re a ghost. You should stay away from me. I really think I’m afraid of you.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. I mean no harm.” The young man spun around and lifted his right arm to open the Kenmore’s door. It was the first time Nolan saw the scar at the top of his back, which ebbed into the cotton material of Zeb’s white shirt. Pink lines that looked like mesh etched over the young man’s skin. The pattern resembled something like fish scales. Layers of skin had obviously once been removed from the tenant’s shoulder and back. A nasty skin graph of sorts had seemingly occurred at one point in the young man’s life. Scar tissue that looked like the woven metal of a chicken fryer basket was left behind. The young man’s skin was a purple-pink hue and bumpy in places. When Zeb flexed his shoulder muscle, wrinkles appeared along the scar tissue. The scales seemed to move like a snake, coiling together.

“I’m sorry. Independence Day is always a bad holiday for me.” Nolan looked into his empty shot glass, decided to fill it, and consumed another shot of Jack. Following his action, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and heavily sighed.

“I understand pain,” the tenant replied. He found the skim milk within the refrigerator, a box of Corn Flakes on the counter, and a bowl in one of the cupboards above the stove. As he poured himself his breakfast, he said, “We all have pain in different ways.”

“The ball cap, long-sleeved shirt, and gloves are your pain, aren’t they?” Nolan felt dizzy, having consumed too much Jack. His goal was to be passed out by noon, fully inebriated by the downed shots. Maybe he could just sleep the day away, which meant he didn’t have to think about Peter drowning. Sometimes drinking was the key to living. Sometimes it wasn’t. Today was imperative that he became completely intoxicated, though. Smashed. s**t-faced. Out of control. If he poisoned himself enough with Jack, then he just might be able to forget about a cookout and lake accident three years ago that changed his life forever.

Zeb ignored the question. Instead, he sat across from his landlord at the four-person table and spooned a few mildly-soaked flakes into his mouth, which he chewed up and swallowed down with speed. Then he pointed the end of his spoon at Nolan and asked, “How much have you had to drink?”

“A lot. Too much. It’s really none of your business.”

“Your eyes are bloodshot.”

Nolan giggled in his inebriated state. “It’s quite fashionable and very festive for the holiday, don’t you think?”

The young man spooned another mouthful of flakes into his mouth, chewed them up, and swallowed them down. “I shouldn’t care about you, but I do.”

“Whydoyoucareaboutme?” Nolan’s words slurred together, which made him sound like an i***t—something he surely wasn’t.

“We’re similar in ways. We hurt.”

“Doesn’t everyone hurt?”

“Yes.” Zeb nodded. “But not like us. Our pain is most deep.”

“Like your back and shoulder, right?”

“And my hand, head, and right side.”

“Tell me what happened to you, Zeb.”

“Someday. When you’re not drunk. Certainly not today. Today is about you and your pain. Forget about my pain for the day.”

Nolan smiled. Before taking his shot glass and bottle of Jack to his bedroom, leaving the tenant behind with his morning cereal in the kitchen, he slurred, “I care about you, too. I don’t know why, but I do.”