Dont Worry

Mar 12, 2026

Kylan Man #37.1

You ever hear skin stretch? Not like a cut or scrape — I mean real, thick, human skin. The kind that takes effort. It sticks. It resists. But when it gives… it sounds like wet paper ripping. I still hear it sometimes, even when I’m alone. Especially when I’m alone.

I was sixteen when I left. Eugene, Oregon. Nobody noticed. Not the neighbors. Not the teachers. Not my dad. Especially not him.

He used to drink until his face turned purple and the bottle was warm in his hands. He’d call me names that didn’t make sense and hit like he wanted to erase me. I think he was trying to. And maybe, back then, I wanted him to succeed.

So I left. I stole 83 bucks from his wallet and a half-rotten hoodie from the Goodwill bin. I slept behind a Safeway. I ate gas station sandwiches. I’d sit in the park and smile at strangers just to feel human. People mostly ignored me.

Except them.

The kids who thought they were better. The ones with vape pens and fake Gucci belts. The ones who laughed when I asked for change. One of them — Devin — liked to follow me around. He’d call me “trashboy” and throw pennies at me like I was some homeless wishing well.

I tried to be good. I always tried to be good. But kindness is wasted on wolves.

One night, he and his friends found me near the river trail. I’d built a little camp out of tarp and wood scraps. It was the only place that felt like mine.

They kicked it down. They beat me until I bled from the mouth. Devin spit in my face and said, “Go crawl back to your rat hole, freak.”

Something in me broke that night.

I followed him. For days. I learned his schedule. I saw how fake he was — hugging his mom, smiling in church. I waited. I watched. And when he walked home alone down 6th Avenue, headphones in, hoodie up…

I struck.

I didn’t even plan the rest. I didn’t know it would be like that. The blood. The twitching. The warmth. It was like peeling away the lie — and underneath it was peace. It took hours. I don’t know how I had the strength. But I did it. I peeled him like fruit.

Then I put it on.

The skin was tight, sticky. But once it was on, it fit. I was Devin. I was the golden boy. People looked at me differently. They didn’t flinch. They smiled.

I’ve been practicing his voice. I’m getting better at the walk. Soon, I’ll go home to his family. I’ll sit at his dinner table, sleep in his bed, live his life.

He took everything from me. So now I’ll take it from him — from inside.

And if anyone tries to stop me… Well. I’ve learned how to make more room under the skin.

They think I’m Devin.

His mom cried when she saw me. She threw her arms around me like I was her own flesh and blood. I guess, technically, I was.

Funny thing about skin — it’s convincing. You wear it right, walk the way they remember, and people want to believe. They fill in the gaps. It’s easier than asking questions.

I’ve been living here for weeks.

At first, it was… itchy. It didn’t quite fit. But after a few days, it stretched into place like it wanted me inside. My voice was the hardest part — that boyish lilt Devin had. I practiced in the mirror, lips moving like a puppet’s. Eventually, I could say things like:

“Love you, Mom.”

“I’m fine, just tired.”

“No, I haven’t seen Trashboy lately.”

They bought every word.

All except her. His little sister.

Macy.

Seven years old, crooked teeth, always watching. She didn’t say much at first. Just stared. Stared too long. And one night, she said:

“You don’t blink like Devin.”

That made my smile twitch. I tried to laugh it off but….i knew she would become a problem.

“You know macy,funny little thing about skin,it doesnt tear, it stretches. But the person inside can tear like a wet piece of paper. mean, at least Devin did”. She tried to scream but the sound never left her mouth. I stabbed her with a pencil in the neck and tore at her skin….By morning she was a pile of flesh and bones. I left out the window.By the time they found her flesh the skin was part of me.