Free Skin : the X-files by Ben Mezrich Page B

thin shoulders heaving under his torn hospital smock. He could see bottle necks sticking out of the glass like phallic icebergs, the trace of an alcoholic’s rage or a fraternity party that had overflowed into the dark Brooklyn streets. Stanton’s mind whirled as the shards grew in his eyes, huge green thorns taunting him, daring him, begging him forward.
    Suddenly, his mouth opened and a dull moan escaped into the night air. His bare feet curled inward against the sidewalk, and his spine arched back. The muscles in his thighs contracted, and he threw himself forward, diving 76

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    headlong into the street. His body crashed down into the glass, and he rolled back and forth against the shards, his arms flailing wildly at his sides.
    He could hear the hospital smock tearing, the glass crunching under his weight. But he felt no relief. The glass did nothing to stop the horrible itching. The shards should have ripped through his skin as easily as it ripped his thin smock—but the terrible crawling continued unabated. It felt as though every inch of his body was infested with tiny, hungry maggots. It was so bad he couldn’t keep a single thought in his head, so bad that every command from his brain seemed to echo a thousand times before it found his muscles.
    Lying flat on his back in the broken glass, he slammed his palms over his eyes and an anguished wail bellowed through his lungs. What the hell was going on? What the hell was wrong with him?
    He felt something warm and wet against his closed eyelids, and he quickly pulled his hands away. His eyes opened, and he stared at his blooded palms. He quickly crawled to his knees, more tears burning at his eyes.
    Even through the intense itching, he could still remember the woman’s head between his palms. He could still hear the bones in her skull crunching as he had squeezed. He could still see her eyes bulging forward, the blood spouting out of her ears, her cheeks collapsing into her mouth—he could still feel her die between his palms. Between his palms.
    And worst of all—he could still feel the rage emanat-77

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    ing through his body. The rage that had overwhelmed his thoughts and his brain and made him leap up out of the hospital bed. The fierce anger that had started somewhere in the itching: an unbelievable heat, burning downward through his flesh. It had felt as if his veins and arteries had caught fire, his insides boiling under the intense flame.
    Then the fiery rage had entered his skull and everything had gone white. He had seen the nurse leaning over him, and it was like looking through someone else’s eyes. The rage had taken over, and he had grabbed her head in his hands.
    After that, it had all happened so fast. The itching, burning rage had made him destroy everything within reach. And then a single thought had twisted through the agony— escape .
    His head jerked back and forth as new tremors spiraled through his body. He shook the broken glass out of his smock as he staggered to his feet. Escape. Somewhere in what was left of his mind, he knew the command was not his own. It also came from somewhere in the horrible itching. Somewhere in his skin.
    He had no choice but to obey. When he resisted, the itching only grew worse. He stumbled forward, his bare feet crunching against the glass. He wasn’t sure where he was—but he knew he wasn’t far ahead of the sirens or the shouts. He couldn’t let them catch him. He knew what the itching and the rage would make him do if they caught him. More skulls between his palms—
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    A sudden screech tore into his ears, and he looked up through blurry eyes. He saw the yellow hood of a taxicab careening around the corner ahead of him, the startled driver leaning heavily on his horn. There was a brief, frozen second—then the front fender glanced against Stanton’s left thigh.
    The cab skidded to a sudden stop. Stanton looked down and saw the mangled hood still partially wrapped around his