Page 9 of Skyn (After the End #3)

Unreal

When I finally stand, legs as wobbly as a toddler’s, I realize we transitioned from the rickety death cart to something smoother before ultimately finding ourselves on foot again.

Doors whoosh open, and suddenly, I’m cold.

My boots make a crisp, echoing tap, then a squeak, as if even they are surprised by the pristine cleanliness of the floor beneath them.

And then, a scent, faint, yet unmistakable: bread. For a moment, I think of the bread-making girl and hope she’s okay.

They brought me in through the kitchen, perhaps?

I stumble on the stairs, a clumsy lurch that pulls me harshly back into the present. A second hand presses against my ass, squeezing in a way that only pretends to be helpful. Almost instantly, a conversation erupts—far too gleeful for my liking.

“Oh my God, is this her?” A woman this time, chipper, as if they’re heading to a surprise party.

“I know, she’s perfect,” one of the Chins chimes in.

“Wait, does Lily know about this?” another one asks, suddenly less certain.

“I mean, she left him, right?” The first person also sounds unsure now, as if realizing this could go south very quickly. There’s a pregnant pause as the group collectively reconsiders their enthusiasm.

We pause on the steps—steps that, now that I’m counting, seem endless.

“No, no, we lost an entire cycle,” the other voice reassures. “She needs him to learn his lesson.” But the doubt lingers in their voices.

I stumble over the last stair and am unceremoniously guided into another room.

The cloth over my head is lifted slowly, and the world turns into a blinding mirror.

I blink, feeling like I just stepped onto the surface of the sun.

Listen, even though I live underground, I am an Information System worker.

I knew there was a sun. But gotdamn, are people really out here staring at stars?

The light is helmet lamp-bright, overwhelming in its intensity. I hadn’t thought of this. What if I’m blind here? Panic gnaws at the edges of my resolve. What have I gotten myself into?

Someone shoves a pair of dark glasses into my hands, and I slip them on, only then realizing how badly my hands are shaking.

As my vision clears, I find myself standing in a palace straight out of a storybook.

The floors—ornate marble polished to a mirror shine—stretch out beneath me, and I’m utterly overwhelmed by the aesthetic cleanliness of it all.

The air is crisp and fresh, not tinged with the soot that glitters in the lamplight and covers our underground homes in a fine layer.

I drop to my knees, waving at my own reflection on the floor.

We don’t get a chance to stare at ourselves often down below; we rush past polished bronze to tame our hair.

But this is a full rendition of me. On the floor.

Unreal.

Like I’m kneeling on a thin sheet of glass.

A massive bed dominates the center of the room, draped in layers of fabric so thick and soft, they look like a stack of pancakes waiting for syrup. I can’t remember the last time I saw anything so clean, so untouched by the grime that coats every surface of the mines.

“You’ll have plenty of time to lick the floors, pet,” jokes one of the people from before. “Right now, you have to make ready for your husband.”

The Chins close the door behind them, leaving me alone in this impossibly opulent bedroom.

Wait…my what?

Husband, not groom. I’m here to be married?

A skin bride isn’t a real wife. There’s no ceremony, no signatures—no titles.

The thought reverberates inside my skull like an earthquake, dulling the shock of the room’s outrageous luxury.

I was so caught up in the sheer otherness of the palace, in the shock of seeing something so clean and perfect, that the reality of my situation didn’t fully sink in until now.

Married. To whom?

Lord, I have never used the word whom in my life. Somebody check on me.

Married to someone I don’t know, someone who will see me as nothing more than a fetish? Legally bound to a machine forever? A skin bride has the benefit of being in a temporary arrangement. What the hell is this? Should I ask for a lawyer to understand the terms of this marriage?

I say the word out loud. “Marriage?”

The enormity of my questions makes my knees weak, and I steady myself against the bedpost to keep from collapsing.

I’m too far gone to turn back now. This place, as overwhelming and terrifying as it is, offers something that Josh ripped away from me.

And if nothing else, I will eat well.

I have always been hungry. It seems to be one of my defining traits—Fawl’s stomach growling, Fawl wanting more. But maybe my life belowground just…wasn’t enough.

I straighten, pushing away the lingering thoughts of Josh.

Without hesitation, I strip down, peeling away the layers of clothing that cling to my skin, dirt and dust falling to the floor as I do.

This is what I’m here for, isn’t it? To be examined, to be gawked at?

For my every hole to be plundered? Each piece of fabric falls to the floor with a soft rustle, leaving me exposed in this pristine, unreal place.

The air in the room is cool against my bare skin. I stand there, eyes closed, arms out, legs akimbo, like a star.