Full Body Chills - CIRCUS: Flesh Is Only Me

Episode Date: October 7, 2024

A story that shows how easy your life can be skinned apart.Written by David Flowers. Full Body Chills is brought to you by Max. This Halloween, the movies that haunt you are available on Max. Stream all month long. Subscription required. Visit max.com. Looking for more chills? Follow Full Body Chills on Instagram @fullbodychillspod. Full Body Chills is an audiochuck production.Instagram: @audiochuckTwitter: @audiochuckFacebook: /audiochuckllcTikTok: @audiochuck

This episode was produced with immersive audio. For the best experience, we kindly recommend you listen with headphones. This episode contains scenes that some listeners may find disturbing. Listener discretion is advised. Reflections are mirror, mirror on the wall. Who is the foulest of them all? This funhouse reflection that you see takes all its shape from reality. Our next fright and its inception lurks within your own perception. A curse of flesh or skin psychosis. I lead to you the diagnosis. If you fear what's adipose, gather round and listen close. You know how some people say it's rude to stare?

Like if someone's having a bad hair day or they're missing an arm or whatever. Showing privacy is showing respect. At least that's what my dad used to say. But at the same time, it's also important to keep eye contact and face whoever you're speaking to. Like we're supposed to stare, but staring too much or in the wrong way is bad. It's as if to say parts of what we do or who we are shouldn't be seen. And maybe that's it. Maybe once you've seen it, you realize it's all the same. That every part of us is just us. Meat, bone, and flesh.

But then where does it start? Let me ask a different question. You know how some people with trauma can't unsee certain things? Like PTSD. It's because of the war in Afghanistan my uncle can't look at a piece of steak. The moment he even hears meat sizzling, he's over a toilet. His buddy was in the truck ahead of him when they drove over a landmine. Only half his friend could be salvaged from the burning wreckage.

Now, no more steaks. But is there such a thing as incremental trauma? Like, could you get to that point and be a God-fearing vegan just by seeing someone put a match under their finger? Everything's got to start somewhere, right? Maybe a finger is all it takes. A couple weeks ago, I was at home putting dinner together. I was making Asian stir-fry. I had just set the rice to boil and went to peel some carrots over the trash. The whole time, meanwhile, I was nodding along to my favorite podcast and not paying attention to how I was holding the peeler when... It slipped.

Fuck. It made a wide gash, shaving off a good chunk of my index finger. The raw, exposed underskin shone a bright pink and burned at the touch of air. Instantly, I threw my wound under the sink, the water like an iron pressed against my skin. The blood was slow at first, as though it were too shocked to flow, but when it came out, it came out quick, spilling faster than the faucet. Luckily, a trip to the ER wasn't necessary. After a few minutes and a lot of bloody paper towels, I was able to stop the bleeding and get my finger wrapped up. I finished cleaning, moved the rice off the stove, and turned back to the

half-peeled carrots when I noticed, still dangling from the peeler like a shaved onion, was the missing slice of my finger. And I can't tell you why, because I honestly don't know, but it was like something in me took over, and without really thinking, I took the thin shred of skin and threw it in my mouth. It was only after I swallowed that common sense kicked in. Yet, it didn't feel real, almost like I only imagined it. But I didn't imagine it. I could still recall the skin's spongy texture and the taste. No taste, but like a salty pulp. The first thing I did immediately was spit and scrub my tongue. Though it wasn't so much I felt disgusted, but rather ashamed.

I should have felt disgusted, I know that, but for some reason I wasn't. And I don't know why I wasn't. But maybe the cut on my finger wasn't what started it. Maybe it actually started with the videos. We all have our guilty pleasures. For some, that's eating raw cookie dough or reality TV. For me, it used to be extra fuzzy robes and ketchup on my mac and cheese. But over the last year, I've adopted a new guilty pleasure. Pimple popping. I know you're probably giving me a gross look right now, and I get it. I used to cringe whenever I removed a pimple strip. But one day, it just stopped bugging me. And then one day, I sort of enjoyed it.

And then one day, I found myself deep in a playlist of videos with people piercing the pus-filled balloons that grow on their back. I can't explain it other than to say I found it weirdly and truly satisfying. Or maybe it all started when I began picking at that weird rash on my foot. I don't know. I don't know how it started, but at some point,

I think there must have been enough incremental trauma, or whatever you want to call it, to push me over the edge. Because one day, my whole life started to look different. I was having brunch with one of my girlfriends. Maddie, who I've known since high school, also invited one of her friends from work. I think her name was Carla or Carly. It doesn't matter. Maddie and her were close, and I had no problem with having

an extra face sit at our table. But what I did have a problem with was her face. Now, hear me out. I'm not a queasy kind of gal. You work in nursing long enough like I have, and you learn to stomach some more nasty scrapes and bruises. But when Carla, or Carly, came up to the table, I nearly returned my sunny side eggs scrambled to the floor. Her eye, her right eye, was gone. And I don't mean gone as in missing an eye, healed and not there kind of gone. I mean, it was like she was just shot in the head. Strands of connective tissue spun the empty socket in a web and even hung out and over her cheek like wet confetti. It was seriously like someone attached a fork to a drill and went to town on her skull.

It was a miracle to me that this woman was smiling, let alone standing, in front of us without even showing the slightest hint of discomfort. It was because of that and Maddie's jubilant welcome towards her friend, spoken as though nothing was wrong, that I quickly forced a smile and wrenched my gaze out from the stringy wound. Maddie introduced us. Her friend apologized for being late and said she didn't see the last exit sign, which threw her on a detour. I only nodded, fighting to maintain eye contact while not slipping back down the gash on her face.

Shortly after, our waiter came by and took her order, and the way he composed himself, as if totally unaffected by her obvious scar, was nothing short of a five-star review. I did my best to mimic his manners, avoiding the subject and sight of her eye the best I could. And so through the rest of brunch, I strained an innocent smile while we ate. Or I guess while they ate. I only poked a fork at my eggs and hash browns, which now seemed a texture too similar to strands of cooked flesh. Sometime after we said our goodbyes, Maddie and I got together again for a little Netflix party. It was just the two of us,

so at last I could discuss the subject that had been nagging me all day. Hey, next time, you know, a little heads up would be appreciated. Maddie raised an eyebrow. You know, I pointed at my right eye. And like, I don't mean to be rude or anything, but what's the story behind that anyway? Had to be recent, right? It wasn't even properly dressed. Again, Maddie acted like she was confused. What?

I rolled my eyes. Oh, come on, what else? Her eye. Seriously, it looked like someone gouged it out with a cheese grater. But Maddie remained adamant. She had no idea what I was talking about. And so, on and on we went in circles to the point where each of us was accusing the other of gaslighting. Eventually, I just dropped it altogether.

Either I was blind, or this was too sensitive of a subject to even talk about in private. I never saw Maddie's friend after that, but I was reminded of her eye only a few days later. I was riding the subway. It was a busy morning with everyone packed like fake snakes in one of those spring-loaded cans.

On days like that, you can't be picky with where you sit, or, in my case, stand. Nor can you decide where other people sit. And it seemed I was short of luck, because just across from me sat a mother and her screaming infant. Going autopilot for most of the ride, I zoned out, only coming to when the crying suddenly stopped. I turned, absentmindedly,

and accidentally caught a full view of the mom breastfeeding her kid. Except that's not exactly what I saw. The infant was wrapped around the mother's chest, but her chest was nothing but a shredded net of skin. And this is difficult for me to even describe because it wasn't like any skin disease I've ever seen. But it was though her flesh was made of rubber bands that had been melted or stretched too thin. It was just like the eye wound I saw before, but larger, too large.

The child was clinging onto the mother. Literally. Its little hands clutched around ropes of skin that barely covered pulsing pink strands. And it suckled on the wound like how a dog tears at a chicken bone. Giving a whole new definition to the word breastfeeding. But in an instant, the mother adjusted her feeding cloth and fixed me with a mean look. I was so embarrassed, I turned and hid my face. I didn't mean to stare, especially not for that long. I was just so blindsided that I couldn't look away. It was like the finger cut all over again.

It didn't feel real. It couldn't have been. There's no way anyone could be walking around or carrying a kid with that serious of an injury. But I know what I saw. The train lurched to a stop. My stop. I didn't even bother to look back. I just got off the train quickly and left,

putting as much distance between me and that wound as possible. That night, I couldn't sleep. The memory of the train, of the mother, and Maddie's friend kept replaying in my head. So I did what I always do when I'm up late and wide awake. I scrolled through Instagram. At first, I was just trying to take my mind off things, but every video, every post started to get blurry as the questions kept growing. After a while, I couldn't contain them, and soon I was falling down a rabbit hole of Google search results, trailing through WebMD, the CDC website, and even a couple of non-licensed, quote, professional medical advisory boards. I was grasping for some seriously thin straws, trying to find anything that resembled the flesh disease that I had seen. Yet nothing, not a single image save a few lucid commissions by a horror sci-fi artist

matched up. So I took an even broader approach and googled random phrases like hanging skin, tangled fleshy growth, and also consuming flesh. Now I can't say that I found any answers because I didn't. However, through that last phrase, I came across, um, maybe you'd call it a trend? There was this group of videos buried beneath more popular search results. They spanned several channels but hardly had any views and were posted sporadically, some dating back decades while others within the year. Yet despite the small following, all of the videos appeared to copy one another. And maybe trend isn't the right word here, because the content and style of these videos resembled something more like a ritual. They were all the same, with one person filming themselves in what appeared to be their bedroom or bathroom. Some of them hid their faces while others weren't so shy.

Yet none of them stood out in the slightest. If I showed you a clip of one of these videos without any context, you might think it was pulled from some random person's vlog. Except it clearly wasn't a vlog, because for the most part, the videos were entirely silent. The person filming was the center subject. There was no introduction or any presentation. Typically, it began with this person holding a mirror or holding the camera while facing one, and then alongside this, there'd be a message. Sometimes they had this message pre-written on a piece of paper, sometimes they said it aloud, but the message was always the same and read,

I see myself for what I am, and I see you for what we are. And then there'd be another line. But before that, they'd take out a knife or a pin and cut themselves. And the next line was, I am only flesh and flesh is only me. This phrase would repeat

and with every repetition they'd make another cut. Now, these were normally just scratches, little nicks barely wide enough to draw blood, but as my morbid fascination led me from video to video, there was one that stopped me dead in my tracks. It was like the others, with a man sitting in his room. He was at a desk and the camera was close, leaned in, keeping his face just barely out of view.

Like so many others, he held up a small mirror, pointed at the camera. Then with his other hand, he raised a scrawled note that read, I see myself for what I am, and I see you for what we are. The handwriting was thick and messy, like it had been written in a daze or with finger paint. Then the man leaned over and adjusted the camera. He brought it to a new angle, one that held over the desk, and a note with that single phrase written over and over. I am only flesh, and flesh is only me.

I am only flesh, and flesh is only me. I am only flesh, and flesh is only me. I had no idea what would happen next. Of course, I only thought he'd cut his palm or pierce his finger, the same as everyone else. And when he put his hand under the camera, I only thought he'd cut his palm or pierce his finger, the same as everyone else. And when he put his hand under the camera, I took it as proof. But then, he grabbed a knife, and holding it over his thumb, he pressed down. My eyes shot wide with blood. The bisected finger made me squeal, yet the man stayed silent. No, I thought. This has to be a prank.

Just a flashy prosthetic. But before I could even recognize the painful tremors of his hand as genuine, he cleaved another finger. I felt my stomach lurch and dropped my phone. The video still had a minute left, but I was gone. I ran to my bathroom, praying over the toilet like it might rid me of the image still swirling in my head. The sound still pressing in my ears. Muscle and bone splitting in half.

No, I didn't find any answers online. But I learned that some people are truly fucked. After Maddie's friend, after the subway and the mom, after my failed attempt to figure out what I was seeing, I started seeing it more and more. It was like when you shop for something online and then suddenly all of your ads change to show you something similar.

Everyday people were changing. Not all at once, nor in the same place, but bit by bit, I saw it. It was at the grocery store, on an old man's hand. He'd scratched at that gaping wound carelessly, strumming strings of loose flesh. It was at the bar, on a woman's cheek. It exposed half her jaw and was stitched across her mouth. Food and drink wriggled between folds of skin, dripping down her chin.

And then it was at my clinic, on one of our patients. A young boy was in for a blood test. I didn't even see it until he was strapped up and I held a needle over his arm. The skin wormed around the pocket of his elbow, uncovering a pit of bloody threads like chewed-up gum. I looked up at the kid, and he was fine. He grimaced a little, but that was only at the sight of the needle. Finally, I conceded. I thought I had to be seeing things.

I was either tired or stressed, and this flesh disease was nothing but my delusion. But I wasn't tired. And sure, while work was tough and that bloody video scarring, I was conscious enough to know that I was still somewhat okay. Focus, I told myself. Whatever this is will pass. I tried searching for a vein. I pressed one thumb against the boy's arm and it sunk into the wound. Even through the glove, I could feel it. Something damp, sticky, and warm. A memory swam up from my childhood when my dad taught me how to disembowel a turkey.

I set the needle down. I told the kid and his mom I'd be right back and that I needed to ask the doctor a quick question. Really, I just wanted someone else to do it. How was I supposed to inject a needle into his arm if all I saw was Swiss cheese. Dr. Jenny was, understandably, a little annoyed when I basically asked her to perform my own job, but I explained that I wanted her opinion on a possible abrasion before I did anything. We went back in and she inspected the boy's arm. She looked carefully, rubbing the wound with alcohol and tearing a finger through the lacerated flesh before picking up a needle, unconcerned. Neither she nor the boy seemed worried, and in a flash she had the needle out and blood drawn. Dr. Jenny later told me that she saw nothing wrong.

It made no sense. Even now, it's no less insane. You want to talk about supernatural? This. This was super unnatural. Living zombies walking the streets, people going about their daily lives with rings of flesh hanging from their bodies like tangled hair. But only I could see it. And since then, it's only leapt from one person to the next, spreading, growing. Now it doesn't just cover an arm or leg. No, it's all over. Last week, I nearly had a heart attack as I went to check my mail.

When I looked up, a couple of my neighbors were passing by, waving. I nearly screamed. Their whole bodies were nothing but regurgitated lumps of skin. This unraveling, fraying texture, like the straw pouring out of a scarecrow. I would say they were smiling, except their faces were so twisted, I couldn't tell mouth from nose. And it's not just them. Most people don't even look like people anymore.

Everyone at work, everyone in my family, they're all covered in that same awful wound. Now I can't even tell my best friend apart from a stranger. Everyone is just the same. Everyone is just flesh. I'm trapped inside a nightmare. When I go out, I'm surrounded by these plague-ridden horrors, and I can never tell when they're smiling or sad, angry or hurt, making

any human interaction near impossible. But even when I'm able to grasp a conversation, even then, I want to rip my eyes out. If their faces have any remaining features, they're literally spun with wet tissue, their mouths stitched, their eyes crocheted, every surface a fresh glimpse of hell, and their voices. Last Thursday, I was late for work. I'd been dragging my feet all morning, phone in hand, ready to call in sick. I wasn't actually sick, but the thought of greeting and treating a dozen oozing flesh ghouls was enough to make me want to vomit. But in that week alone, I had called off three times already. My excuses were wearing thin.

I approached the subway platform just as my train came screeching down the tunnel. I dreaded how it would feel crammed inside. The crowd of tangled faces were already overbearing. One face was so threaded it looked pocked with maggots. Another was twisted like an ice cream cone. And nearby was a mangled figure literally plastered against one wall. I checked my phone, eyeing the clock as if it were enough to distract from the surrounding graveyard. But out of the corner of my eye, I noticed one of the ragged figures stumbling my

way. From his clothes alone, I guessed he was homeless. At first, I tried ignoring him, but as the train wore closer, he began grunting at me. I looked up at his face, a surface of veiny, peach and pink wires. The mold of an eye was slacked to his cheek and a gaping hole crisscrossed the front of his head. And then out of that hole came a sound like a lawnmower choking on rocks. The train drove nearer and so did he. His voice crackled ever louder as he reached out a hand. Startled, I tried backing away but was blocked by the crowd. His groaning, coughing, grew more stressed. Maybe he was on drugs, maybe he was nuts, or maybe this disease was finally turning people

into real monsters, I didn't know. But now I was pushing, screaming for help. Immediately he stopped and raised his mangled hands. The rest of the crowd was facing me with murmurs idled about. I realized then in my attacker's hand was a wallet. My wallet. In my rush, I must have dropped it. Once more, he held it out. I took it and with a meek thank you, snuck away from the growing crowd and onto the train. I don't think I fully processed what had happened. The grunting and groans from the man just trying to help me seemed like the lesser of concerns when standing next to nightmares. But then a creeping new dread came crackling over the intercom. The gargled sound was incoherent. Inhuman.

My ears were turned on now and focused. All around me, the conversations that were happening, a phone call, a shouting match between two passengers, a person singing while playing guitar, all of it was muddy gibberish. I couldn't hear them. First this disease was all that I could see, and now it was all that I could hear. As soon as the next stop, I got off and took the train back home. I was beyond any help. Even if there was a remedy for this curse, there was no one I could speak to.

No one I could see who could show me what it was. The only way I could communicate was through text or email, but even then, how could I properly explain what I was going through? Who would believe me? As if it couldn't get any worse, last week I found a scar on my finger. I didn't think much of it at first. It was only just the scar from when I slipped with the peeler. But then, the scar got bigger. Then, it wasn't a scar at all. For a long time, I picked at the wound, marveling with how I could pull each strand of skin.

I tried treating it with essential oil, skin care products, gauze, and alcohol, but none of it has worked. I could barely even feel the wound. So then I took to nail clippers. But it grew back. It spread faster than any fungus or disease. And every day it ate more and more of me to the point where I could pull away at my very own flesh and see the oily bits underneath.

I thought I would be afraid, but it doesn't hurt. Not as I thought it would. I thought as my internal organs became exposed, I would feel them bleed and rot. I thought as the skin around my neck became a fleshy rope, the air would escape and I'd choke on nothing. But here I am, still alive. Instead, I've become almost numb. I can still feel, but the nerves have turned dull as my body lost its shape. I can still move, but the way my skin rolls and slides makes my stomach shake.

And I wonder, what will happen when it goes deeper? I know there's still a brain pulsing under my scalp. I can see it if I move my hair, but how long before it changes too? Will I lose control of my arms, like how I've lost my voice? Will I lose my thoughts? Maybe this all started with a finger. Maybe it was a pimple or a rash. But now, none of those things hold any difference. When I look at my hands, I don't see my hands anymore. There are only ribbons of flesh interwoven with a pair of tweezers. When I look in the mirror, I don't see my face.

I don't even see any eyes. But I know they're there. They're just hidden under a spool of skin tied around my head. Threads to be untangled. Just a pinch and a pull. That's all it would take. Right around where my eyes should be. The tweezers will make it quick.

Like clipping a nail. Remove the ugly parts and then I won't have to look at it anymore. I know it's going to hurt. I know I should feel afraid. But my hands hold steady. It's only a bit of flesh. And flesh is only me. Tend your perceptions as that which also bleeds. A flower blooms, yet also rots, if given not its needs.

That's all for our reflection. Now on with the show. Four stories down. Two more to go. Near and ahead, you're likely to swoon. So hold on tight. I'll see you soon. Full Body Chills is an AudioChuck production.

This episode was written by David Flowers and read by Margot Seibert. Intro and outro written and read by David Flowers. So, what do you think, Chuck? Do you approve?