Barbara knocked delicately on Diane’s front door, using her spare hand to balance her finest crystal dish that contained the egg salad she had spent nearly an hour making. After knocking, she smoothed down the edges of her skin where the stitches puckered, where her New Skin wouldn’t lay perfectly flat against the edges of the old. It would be a sign of her class, she knew, that she wasn’t able to afford a surgeon who could sew her New Face on perfectly, but girls did what they could in this day and age. Diane gave her a chance, and she had to be grateful for that. As long as she didn’t pick at the skin, didn’t pull at the edge of the stitch, as long as she left it alone she would be okay. She would dazzle the rest of the women with her clothing and her egg salad, and they wouldn’t ask her questions about it, and they certainly wouldn’t hurt her for it.

Almost immediately, she scolded herself for thinking that. These women weren’t a threat. There had been stories on the radio recently about feral women, women who were so desperate for New Skin and New Faces that they would rip people limb-from-limb, attacking them however they could manage. Some stories went so far as to claim these feral women ate the new skin they stole from their attacks! Barbara told herself she was just being paranoid, the radio was just giving her nightmares, terrible, painful daydreams that couldn’t possibly be true, and turned her attention back to the door.

Diane’s house was lovely. It was painted a gorgeous eggshell white, which Barbara knew was a recent development. She had been talking about it at the country club just days before. It gave the whole street a much classier sort of air, as if one had to have an invitation just to be in the area. Barbara considered herself lucky to actually have an invitation, or else she might’ve felt incredibly out of place.

The door opened with a gentle creak, and Diane’s smiling face peeked out from behind it.

“Oh, Barbara!” She grinned, the New Skin around her smile showing not even the slightest amount of wear. “It’s so good to see you!”

She pulled the door open the rest of the way, allowing Barbara to finally see what she was wearing. It was a lovely scarlet dress, vaguely bell-shaped and accentuating her waist perfectly. Scarlet was a perfect color. An expensive color. If one was lucky enough, one could get scarlet clothing to disguise the inevitable bloodstains from the places where New Skin couldn’t perfectly blend in with the old. Barbara shifted, suddenly very conscious of her two-year-old baby pink day dress. She had been sure to scrub all the stains out, of course, but pink was a cheap color. The color of someone who wanted to afford red, but couldn’t.

“You look wonderful, Diane!” Barbara leaned in to give Diane a kiss on the cheek, which was readily accepted. “Red is such a perfect color on you.”

“Isn’t it?” Diane spun, showing off her dress. “Come in, come in!” she said, moving aside to let Barbara through. “We’re so excited to finally have you at one of our events.”

“Well, I’m excited to be here.”

Barbara stepped inside, following Diane eagerly through the foyer, past the dining room, and into the sitting room, which was already filled with people. She recognized a few of them—Helen, who spent her spare hours at the salon and was wearing a lovely deep maroon. Beatrice, who was a member of Diane’s tennis club and had recently gotten an operation to have her scalp replaced (she was twirling a lock of beautiful chestnut hair around one finger, the seams not even visible above her eyebrows). And of course, Martha. Barbara had known Martha since she moved into the neighborhood—Martha lived right next door to her, in a lovely little cottage with two cats. Martha didn’t come from much, Barbara knew that, but she tried. She was in a deep orange dress, which was a bold color, but one Barbara could appreciate.

The other women remained nameless, a sea of late-sunset colors spread across Diane’s sitting room. Barbara could see that some of them certainly had more money than others, based on the seams in their New Skin and the colors of their dresses. All of them, though, had more money than her.. Diane didn’t bother to introduce her to them, just sat Barbara down and took the egg salad dish from her, placing it gently on a table at the far wall with the other food.

Barbara pretended not to notice that every single other dish on the table was significantly nicer than hers, and had probably taken more time to prepare. Absently, she wondered if the dishes provided were ones that these women would be fine with accidentally leaving here, or perhaps accidentally breaking. Her crystal was one of the nicest things she owned. But these things must’ve been throwaway objects for these other women.

An itch crept up the edge of the seam on Barbara’s jaw, and she ignored it. It would go away, surely. She pinched the inside of her wrist, willing herself to focus on anything else.

#

The first part of dinner went easily enough. None of the women ate very much, preferring to snack on small bites and plates of things. No one touched the egg salad, which Barbara tried not to take too personally. It was a fine egg salad, and Barbara had spent a lot of time on it. But no, everyone seemed to avoid it as much as they possibly could.

Barbara went out of her way to put some on her own plate, as if to signal to the other women that actually it wasn’t poisoned, it wasn’t diseased. It didn’t help.

No one seemed to be touching the pasta salad, either. Martha was glancing back and forth over to it, which Barbara took to mean that it was her plate. It made sense. The pasta salad was in a fine crystal bowl, but similar to her own, Barbara knew that it had to be one of the nicest things Martha owned. She tried to send a sympathetic glance over to the other woman, but just got a blank look in response.

“Did you see Nancy’s New Skin job?” she heard Diane ask, almost as if it was some kind of secret. The women almost immediately burst into conspiratorial giggles.

“Oh my god!” Helen shrieked, always desperate to critique someone’s appearance. “She came into the salon yesterday and I almost couldn’t believe what I was seeing! Could you imagine letting your surgeon do something like that to you?”

“Her stitches were practically gaping open,” Beatrice added. “And all that extra skin she had on her neck? She’s starting to look like a fish, if you ask me.”

Barbara remained quiet. She knew Nancy. She and Nancy had the same surgeon, the one who applied the New Skin that Barbara was wearing at that exact moment. He was a nice guy, a man who was always quick to offer a payment plan if you couldn’t meet the insane rates that some of the other surgeons in town demanded.

And she hadn’t thought Nancy looked that bad, to be honest. She had seen Nancy a few days prior, shopping downtown. Sure, the stitches were a little bit red-looking, but they always did that after surgery. Everyone needed time to heal. Some women claimed to bounce back almost immediately, but Barbara and the rest of the world could usually tell who wasn’t being honest.

“I would simply die if I walked out looking like that!” Helen continued.

“At the very least, you wouldn’t be invited here anymore.” Diane spoke up, the first time since initiating the topic. She turned to look at Barbara. “And what do you think?”

As she spoke, the stitches pulled against the edges of Diane’s face, and a small drip of blood rolled from the edge, just at where her skin was sewn on, down her neck, tracing the length of her collarbone. Barbara pretended not to see, daintily crossing her legs and turning back to the group. It made her own face itchy, just to watch the way that Diane’s stitches tugged against the skin. It was odd, though. Diane bragged about having such a perfect surgeon, someone who was capable of creating seamless transitions, so then why was she bleeding? She should be above that. No one else seemed to notice it, or, if they did, they remained silent.

Barbara filed that information away for herself, unsure as to exactly what she would use it for, but intrigued to have it.

“What do I think?” Barbara asked after a moment, plastering on a clueless smile.

“Do you think she should file a suit against her surgeon for making her look ugly like that?” Beatrice added.

“I’m just lucky to be here.” Barbara smiled. The safest answer she could give, all things considered. Diane rolled her eyes, just the smallest amount.

“Oh, ladies, I think she thinks she’s better than us for not gossiping!” Helen grinned, obviously teasing.

“Leave her alone, you all,” Martha spoke up from the corner. There was a small smudge of dip on her lower lip, and Barbara ached to tell her about it. She wouldn’t dare interrupt though, so there it hung.

“Who, Nancy? Or Barbara?” Beatrice asked, grinning in the same way Helen had.

“Barbara!” Martha responded. “I don’t care what you say about Nancy, I hardly know her. Barbara’s new though, obviously she isn’t used to this.”

The other women just laughed and turned away, listening to Martha, but obviously not caring too much about it. Barbara looked over at Martha and mouthed a silent thank you. Martha didn’t respond, just looking at her for a moment, something sad—almost regretful—behind her eyes. Barbara tried not to think about it too much, just like she tried desperately to ignore that itch that was growing just underneath her jaw.

#

“Weren’t you saying that you were planning another surgery soon, Martha?” Diane asked a little while later, directing her attention towards the woman in orange. Martha looked up from her drink, seemingly shocked that someone had paid her even the slightest bit of attention. Barbara felt bad for her. It wasn’t Martha’s fault that she didn’t get invited to things like this often, she just… didn’t quite fit with the group.

“Oh,” Martha smiled, waving a non-committal hand, “it’s in the cards eventually.”

It was a non-answer, and everyone knew it.

“Darling!” Diane’s eyes narrowed, despite the sweetness of her words. “I insist! You must tell us what you’re doing next.”

Martha’s smile became much more strained.

“I really don’t want to discuss it, actually. I’ve got a lot of things to figure out before I can start considering personal enhancements.”

Barbara watched Martha fiddle with the hem of her dress, obviously nervous. It was difficult not to pity her, at least slightly. But also, Barbara wanted to hate her almost just as much. Diane cared, was all, and if Martha couldn’t appreciate that then maybe she shouldn’t have been there. But at the same time, Martha had defended her just moments before. It was all too complicated, and for a brief second, Barbara regretted getting involved with any of it.

“If it’s a doctor you’re worried about,” Diane continued pressing, a dark gleam in her eye, “I can recommend you a lovely surgeon on the other side of town! He’s a sweetheart, really. I know he could help you with something nice for yourself.”

“Diane!” Martha snapped, a bitterness seeping into her words. “You know I can’t afford that doctor you see. He’s practically the most expensive in the whole state. Some of us have more important things to worry about besides the state of our New Skin.”

Barbara could tell that Martha regretted the words almost as soon as she said them. Her eyes grew wide, and she all but slapped a hand over her mouth. Barbara could feel the itch at her jaw again, and she pinched herself. It didn’t go away.

“Well,” Diane turned to look at Martha, voice growing cold, “if you can’t afford it, I suppose you don’t deserve it, do you?”

The room was painfully, completely silent. Barbara tried to make eye contact with Helen, with Beatrice, with any of the other women who had just been so kind to her. They were all staring at Martha, ravenous looks in their eyes.

“No, that’s not at all what I said Diane, if you would just—“ Martha tried to save herself, but it was too late.

“Ladies?” Diane directed them. The entire room tensed, and then exploded into movement.

Barbara watched as all of the women—truly all of them—dove for Martha, who let out a horrific scream. All at once, they became animals, gnashing teeth and tearing claws. All sense of propriety flew out the window. Helen grabbed the edge of the New Skin on Martha’s arm and pulled, flaying Martha’s limbs, exposing vulnerable muscles and fat. Beatrice went for Martha’s throat, tearing at the jugular with her teeth and causing a spray of blood to paint Diane’s perfect wallpaper. And Diane herself went directly for Martha’s face, not even pretending to be delicate with the stitches. They were a mindless mass of flayed skin, dripping blood, and whatever remained of Martha as she was rended limb from limb.

Barbara backed herself into a corner, slamming her hands over her ears to try to deafen the sound of Martha’s screams, which were practically all that indicated she was human—or even alive—anymore. She felt the edge of that same itch, just at the corner of her jaw, and she almost screamed herself. It was too much.

Barbara watched as Diane removed the New Skin from Martha’s face, still dripping with blood. She held it aloft over the entire mass of women, and gently, so gently, as if it was the most precious thing in the world, she placed Martha’s face over her own.

At first, Barbara thought the sounds coming from Diane’s mouth were sobs. They sounded like it, nearly. Long, painful wheezes where Diane almost doubled-over from the energy they took. Barbara wouldn’t have blamed her for sobbing in this moment, either. It would have made sense. After witnessing and being part of such carnage—

But no.

They weren’t sobs. She wasn’t sobbing. Even a little bit.

She was laughing.

“Oh, Barbara,” Diane said, calming down for just a moment to look around the room. She didn’t end up spotting Barbara, but she kept speaking anyway. “I’m so sorry it had to be like this. This really isn’t what I intended.”

As Diane spoke, Barbara made her way towards the door, edging along the wallpaper, around the writhing mass of women still preying on Martha’s body. She turned her head away, unable to look at the woman that had once been an almost-friend to her. Maybe Martha hadn’t particularly belonged with the group, but she didn’t deserve that. No one did.

“You understand now, though,” Diane continued, “what it takes to be like us. The sort of commitment you need to make to yourself and your community in order to belong.”

Barbara let Diane’s words trail off as she reached the edge of the sitting room, darting through the door, past the dining room, back through the foyer, and out the door.

#

The night air should have been a relief, but it wasn’t. It was heavy, and hot. The humidity did Barbara absolutely no favors, and the moment she made her way down the porch steps, she collapsed to her knees and vomited all over Diane’s prize-winning rose bushes.

Fuck the roses, Barbara thought, picking at the corner of the seam on her jaw. Sweat and blood mixed together until she couldn’t tell the difference anymore. The stitches of her New Skin were inflamed at this point, tight and painful.

The itch hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had grown even more through her ignorance of it. It spread all across her jaw, until Barbara felt like she couldn’t take it anymore. Her hand wandered towards the stitches, and for just a moment, Barbara remembered the way Martha had looked beneath Diane, right after the woman had taken what she wanted from her.

Despite the pain, despite the blood and the muscle and everything all exposed and red, Martha had looked at peace. Somehow happy. As if being separated from her Skin had made her a freer person, even though it was in her final moments.

Barbara’s hands were shaking, but she found the edge of the stitch either way. She tugged on it. It came away far too easily. The itch grew, and it was unbearable. It was underneath the skin, somewhere Barbara couldn’t even access. She tugged again, and another stitch popped. A section of her jaw flooded with relief, the tight, pinching sensation of the seam entirely vanishing.

And then, Barbara made her boldest decision yet. Anxious, and ever-unsure, she guided her hands to the top of her New Face, digging her nails into the seam just at her hairline. And without another thought, firmly unwilling to overthink this, Barbara pulled.

Seams popped, skin ripped, and Barbara’s New Face came off her skull as easily as tearing paper. It shouldn’t have been easy, but somehow, for some reason, it was. She picked the stitches out of their puncture holes, letting the suture thread fall to the ground around her like a cloud of terrible black snowflakes.

She almost screamed, but just before, remembered the women at the party and how easy they were to leap on someone vulnerable. She choked out a half-silent sob instead. The New Skin fell beside her, disregarded for the moment. It was like nothing she had ever experienced. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if any of the women back inside Diane’s living room had ever experienced this sort of feeling. She didn’t think so. And maybe they never would. They were so caught up in it all.

She wondered if any of them had ever itched like she had. If any of them had ever felt the desire to just rip and tear and take it all off, freeing them from Diane, from the surgery, from everything. She touched the exposed muscle and fat that made up her face—her actual face, uncovered by any sort of surgeon’s touch. It was perfect. Her hands came away bloody, and she laughed.

Barbara regarded the New Skin for a second, discarded as it had been. Maybe she would leave it there. Maybe she would let Diane find it; that way, it wouldn’t be Barbara’s problem to deal with anymore. It most likely wouldn’t be enough for a woman like Diane, but Barbara couldn’t bring herself to care. It had been too much for Barbara to ever handle, and she was grateful for the lifted weight.

In the end, she decided to let Diane find it, and do with it as she pleased. Barbara wouldn’t think about it anymore, and she was all the better for it. She decided she would let Diane keep the egg salad dish as well. Who cared if she threw it away? It wasn’t like Barbara had anyone she needed to impress anymore.

She picked herself up, brushing the dirt off of her skirt from where she had knelt in Diane’s rose bushes. Her hands left dark, incriminating bloodstains on the front of her light pink dress, but that didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore.

Barbara smiled, grateful to not feel the tension of the stitches pulling at the edges of her skin that normally came along with such an expression. For the first time in a long time, she could breathe again.