Skin

27

The room is warm so the man is naked. It’s easier this way. Not so much mess. He stands at a workbench, busily dismantling a rabbit. He pulls the skin away from the flesh until it is attached only at the feet, the tail and the head. Then, using a heavy Damascus-steel cleaver, he takes off its paws and tail.

Skinning an animal takes less effort than skinning a human. It’s to do with the fact that there’s so little fat in the subcutaneous layer of the animal.

He cuts into the rabbit’s neck until the vertebrae are revealed, like small, smeared teeth. Then he uses a quick twist to snap the backbone and the head free, and pulls away the tiny coat with its weighted ends. Poking it with a finger he rubs it so the outer and inner silvery fascias slip up and down against each other. Then he bends over and sniffs, letting the smell rise through his nostrils and lodge in the back of his throat. It’s a simple smell, woody and tart. It’s nothing, nothing, like the smell of human skin.

He straightens and lifts the skin on his finger, dangles it for a moment over the bin, then drops it.

Animal skin is always like this. A disappointment. Even soaked in lye water, dehaired and mounted it is never the same as the real thing. Anyway, he’s not interested in the skin. It’s not that but the process he craves. The tearing feel of the lower layer separating from the underlying muscle.

He skins an animal at least once a week. More when he’s particularly anxious.

This week he’s done five.