Free Unwound by Yolanda Olson Page A

the borrowed skin in place. After all, what was one more set of scars? What was another piece of
    skin that didn’t belong to me? What was one more discoloration
    to my imperfect complexion?
    It took almost an hour with my arm being so uncooperative.
    When I was done I stared at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t
    believe I had done this to myself. What pieces of her skin I could use covered most of the gaps and left only small gashes where the
    insides were still visible. I noticed that the gaps I had managed to cover looked like bruises now and it was because I had stretched
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    her skin as much as I could without tearing it.
    While it wasn’t perfect, it would have to do. I grabbed the
    discarded pieces of skin and cartilage and threw them out the
    window.
    If only I had taken more of her, I could’ve closed my arm as
    well.
    I sat down on the cot and put my head in my hands. What was
    becoming of me? Why had I dared to think that? If I was having
    these kinds of thoughts I should not have left. If I was already
    acting like a miniature of London, sewing skin onto myself, I
    should have stayed where I was and taken the torture and abuse.
    Maybe I should have just let London have her fun with me. I
    knew that eventually she would have deemed me unfit to be alive
    and took me apart piece by piece, stitch by stitch until I was
    nothing more than discarded pieces of flesh, broken bones, and
    small timepiece parts scattered across her many workstations
    ready to use for another creation.
    A soft breeze picked up outside as I sat there wallowing in my
    misery. I heard something fluttering about in the wind so I put my face in my chin and looked up to see what it was. I smiled despite my mood; it was a paper airplane. I watched it as it rode the
    breeze lazily and landed at my feet.
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    I nudged it with my toe.
    For something that had glided so gently, it seemed a little
    heavier than what I would think a normal paper airplane would
    feel like.
    Clearing my throat, I leaned down and picked it up and small,
    black drawstring bag fell out of it. I eyed it cautiously for a
    moment. This could not have been an ordinary piece of paper to
    be able to carry that little bag in it and how exactly did it get this far up anyway? I refused to go near the window to shut it, instead I reached down for the airplane and unfolded it to see what it was made of to make a journey this high up harboring that bag.
    If I had blood, I’m sure it would’ve run ice cold at that very
    moment.
    I knew that handwriting so very well and the message that
    was written inside gave me the same feeling of being falsely
    loved and taunted at the same time.
    The words were written like a murderous nursery rhyme:
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    He gave you a gift but mine is more true.
    I cut around the flesh so tender and young to get
    this for you.
    I know how much you’ve always wanted to see
    through two eyes.
    Here’s the little boy’s gift to you on the night that
    he died.
    -L.
    My body was shaking so hard that I could no longer feel the
    difference between the night chill and the fear that was running
    through me. I stared at the bag and let the letter fall from my
    hands. Was she still out there? Was it even her that sent this at all or was it another one of her creations that she had hid so well?
    My breath became labored as I thought of what the note said:
    He gave you a gift. Only one little boy had given me a gift and
    my heart, the pieces that were human, were aching as I reached
    for the bag.
    I opened it slowly and shook it gently into my hand.
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    Another smaller, clear bag fell out.
    My knees buckled underneath me as I realized what I was
    holding.
    In my selfish moments I had always begged London for the
    gift of two eyes. I always wanted to be able to see the world out
    of both sides not just one. And here, she had finally granted my
    request out of venomous hate and deranged love.
    I forced myself to my feet. On my way to the