Unzip

By Nayo Barroso

Published in the Aurora Magazine at D&E College

I wake up before the alarm goes off. I’ve been awake for an hour already, just laying there waiting for some fascinating new thing to occur — anything. I always do this, but nothing new ever happens. I turn my body lazily to the side and glance out the window. The panels are rickety, slivers of wood are sticking out, and the paint is chipped. Ugly, to say the least. Several dead flies lay helplessly on the windowsill. One of them occasionally buzzes on its back, fighting for its life—not quite dead but not quite alive. The light barely breaks through the clouds; it’s dark, gloomy, and downright miserable in this corner of Zürich.

I move to get up, feet dangling helplessly off the edge of my bedframe, occupied by a barely functioning mattress. It’s riddled with holes and stains from years of maltreatment. I drag my feet across the filthy floor, pushing aside trash and dead flies. They cluster together in every corner of this disgusting room. It makes me sick. I shuffle through them ignorantly, making a direct path to the washroom.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror… What am I?

I begin to rub the top of my skull where my hair meets my skin in some desperate attempt to find the answer. I feel around till I find the cold metallic pin. What is this? I begin to pull, and as I pull, I hear the rip of skin. It feels like tearing raw meat apart in a chicken grinder.

Slowly, I begin to unzip.

I pull the zipper down my face; my skin falls away pathetically. I pull it down my chest to reveal what little muscle I have holding me together. I continue to pull as the zipper separates my skin down to my right leg. I stop just before my toe. My skin is on the floor. It’s lying all around me in a helpless, disgusting heap. I unzip the remainder of my identity and step out of my skin. Blood trickles to the floor around me as I gather my skin in my arms and place it in the bathroom sink.

I look at my reflection in the mirror… What am I?!

My eyes are bulging. I touch the place where my hair was and feel the squishy meat that protects my brain. Do I consist of nothing but these fleshy layers that protect my vital organs? I feel around my mandibles. What are these things useful for except to masticate some tasteless leftovers I left on the stove last night? I stare at my skin in the sink. My hand burns as it wraps around the rusty faucet. The water runs dirty. It smells foul. I need to wash my skin. I scrub the inside till the garnet water runs clear. I turn it inside out and wash the outside until it’s red with conviction.

It’s not clean enough! 

“AGH!” My voice is hoarse. The words drip off my tongue in agony.

I begin to feel around my body for another metallic pin in a frantic attempt to clean this filthy body. I find it. It’s under my foot. I pull, and I hear the zipper begin to rip my muscles apart. I pull it up my leg and past my chest, revealing my ribs—there’s a beating heart behind this protective cage. What a well-thought-out design… yes… well thought out indeed. When I reach my face, I pull gently, and the red fibroids fold to either side. They fall to the floor in an unpleasant, squelching sound.

I take my skin out of the sink and secure several clips to the ends so that I may hang it up by the moldy shower curtain to dry. I yank the curtain aside to make room for my rind. I gather my muscles in my bony arms and place them in the bathroom sink.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror–what am I? What is this?!

I wash and wash and wash until my muscles are an unusual shade. I must have drained the blood from their homely vessels, nestled within the meaty steaks of my biceps and quads. How odd. But clean. Yes, very clean. I look at my hands; their little bones are held together by tiny fibers and stringy blood vessels that are sagging uncomfortably to all sides from the lack of support. Perhaps if I can reach this bulbous pink thing in my skull, I can figure out what I am. I poke and probe at the awkward shape of my skull—such strange cracks and dents. I wonder…

I grab either side and pull so that I may separate the bone from itself. If only there were a zipper. Instead, I hear the scraping sound of velcro as my skull parts in an awkward manner. The opening reveals an odd sludge that you’d call the brain. You see, the thing about brains—well, let’s not get all caught up in that. It looks like an undercooked walnut if walnuts could be raw in such a way. It stares at me; I stare back. How vulgar and pathetic.

It slips out from my skull and lands on the floor in one big splash, like a wet towel. With my skull parted, nothing could hold it in place. I place each half of my skull on the counter and bend down to grab this preposterous thinking thing.

I look at my reflection in the mirror — hey! You’re there too… Is this making you uncomfortable? I’m sorry; I only intended to examine the layers of my miserable existence…

I will rip myself apart and pull myself back together a million times till I can clean this filthy mess I’ve made. Don’t you understand, sir? I’ve done this to myself! All of this—this unzipping and cleaning and scrubbing and cleaning and — my God I am making myself sick!

What contains me…? Which layer will I find myself in? Think! Think you fool!

I put my brain on top of my cheekbones and push the two halves of my skull together. I pull my muscles out of the sink. They’re a tad brittle from the harsh scrubbing I gave them. I slip them over my head and put my arms through the sleeves. I zip myself up and close the odd sack of meat around my bony prominences. I reach for my skin by the shower curtain and unclip it. It’s dry enough. I step into my skin and zip it back up.

It looks all wrong now — all saggy in the wrong places. It just doesn’t fit. I pull and push, all my layers — AGH! They’re all separated now! What have I done?!

I step back from the mirror, my breath ragged, my fingers twitching over my ill-fitted skin. The seams bulge, the layers slip, and I can feel it—everything out of place—wrong—so foreign.

I unzip again.

And again.

And again.

There must be a way to put myself back together. There has to be. One more time. Just one more time. Then I’ll be clean. Then I’ll be whole. Then I’ll—