Carolin heard a thump from the bathroom. For the last three days she had only gone inside to reach her hand behind the tub curtain and pour half a nutrient packet into the water. Minutes beforehand, she had heard the bath curtain rustle, but thought she might have imagined it.

She had laid in bed for three hours with insomnia. The watch on the bedpost read two am. Having checked for cars besides the powder blue Pacer in the parking lot that morning, she knew she was the motel’s only tenant.

The splash from the tub settled to lapping waves.

He must be able to move, she thought, I wonder if he was awake before that…

There was no mistaking the sound. A sucking whirling of the drain. Carolin drew back the covers and placed her bare feet on the carpet.

Light went on beneath the door.

There was another thump and the sound of the mirror over the sink rattling, and then a collapsing sound on the tiles.

She moved toward the wooden door, the light on her toes, and closed her hand on the knob.

Yes, he was alive in there. Testing his movement.

Carolin turned the knob and let the door float open.

The mirror was slapped with blood. The tub curtain was pulled all the way back, empty; red-orange streaks to the drain, bits of red matter. There was a sludge of blood on the side of the tub, the rim of the sink, across the floor. It leaked steadily from under the door Carolin had just opened.

She stared at herself through the blood splatter on the mirror. He’s behind the fucking door.

He’s trying to leave? Or look at himself?

Carolin backed into the dark. She rushed to the suitcase for a pen and paper and wrote against the bedframe.

 

Hi, don’t panic, and stay in the tub with the curtains drawn. I will get anything you need while you heal. Will knock before entering from now on.

 

She placed it in the sink with the pen and drew the door closed, keeping her eyes averted. She grabbed hold of the green room chair and started to drag it. She hesitated. Would this make them enemies? No, he couldn’t leave, but should she enforce it, or hope he understood she did not want to see him until he looked human?

Carolin sat on the chair, halfway to the door. Maybe he wouldn’t see the note until morning.

Now she really had to use the bathroom. She should have rented two rooms, but to do so now would raise suspicions.

She wouldn’t be able to sleep on it.

Now was a very bad time.

Rushing water from the bathroom, the tub filling. She watched the door. If it opened, and he stepped out, what would she do? Run? Hide? Say, “Hi there.”

The bathroom in the lobby! But what if it was locked? She got her room key and walked to the window, peered through the lopsided blinds. Only the Pacer. She also needed to break into her apartment, for money, for clothes. If the lobby wasn’t open, it would be good practice. Then again, she would be the only suspect in breaking into the lobby, but, if she stole nothing from the motel, why bother her about it? She was clean unless a person came into her room. As long as she kept it locked, they were safe.

She went down to the lobby and found the door open. The inner door was locked. Carolin held two hairpins between her fingers and jammed them in, wiggled one around. No success. She wrestled with the handle and suddenly the door jumped open. Bad lock.

~

When she inserted her motel key, she wondered if he would be crawling around, getting the carpet moist. She went inside and flung herself on the bed, scanning the floors for a muscular skeleton, maybe even a lump of muscle lying around. What is that? What–? The suitcase, sitting too far from her bed. She pulled the covers over her shoulder, facing the window. She rolled over. The bathroom was dark.

The last time she checked the watch, it was after four am.

She woke up after eight.

Did he know when it was night or day? If the lights were off and the daylight streamed under the door, then yes, he would. She went into the suitcase and found something that fit. She needed a bath, or really, a shower. For that, the tub would have to be emptied. The water should have been replaced two days ago, but the eyes in that skull looked too real. The heart was pumping on its own, and the blood pulsating around the skeleton in the bathwater surpassed her tolerance levels. That was the last she looked behind the curtain, and now the thing was crawling in and out of the tub, even touching the mirror. She failed her medical education, first by quitting, second by not seeing this through the whole way. If it didn’t have skin, she was going to stay blind. If he were dead, maybe she wouldn’t have minded as much, but a living walking meat skeleton with two entirely green eyes lurking around her motel bathroom was too much to handle.

The sleeveless diamond blouse she picked from the suitcase was a little long, but the extra material compensated for her bust. Today she would break into her apartment, and grab as many of her own clothes as possible.

She lingered in front of the bathroom, listening as she used her fingers to brush her hair. She tied it up to avoid thinking of a bath, and as usual, so the wig would fit. She knocked and eased it open, checking the tub: curtain drawn. She looked around in the dark.

There was blood on the sink faucets, more blood in general. The note, too, was bloody: dark dried blood, warping the paper. She carefully stepped on the whites of the tiles and examined the note with her fingertips. There was blood on the pen. No message but her own. She looked up at the mirror and saw silhouettes of letters around the dried splotch. They spelled “Water.”

She put the note under her arm and rinsed the pen, then the edges of the sink as best as she could without soap. He was lying in the tub, after all, waiting. After wiping the pen, she added to the note.

 

June, 22nd, Thursday. 1978. I will be gone a while. Use whatever’s left.

 

She carried the water jug from the bedroom to the side of the tub, and loosened the lid. She opened the mirror and took out the army medical kit. Inside, one nutrient packet remained.

If he was awake, it would be a little rude to sprinkle it over his head, with just her hand sticking in, so she ripped it open and placed it next to the jug. She drew the door shut and got outside fast.

~

On the bus, thinking: her family would expect her to be in the U.S. by now. In not more than four more days. She wondered how many weeks until they attempted to contact her, or seriously considered reporting her absence.

~

The front door to her apartment building was open, so she walked down the hall, all the way to the window overlooking the fire escape. She opened it and set her feet on the metal grid. The window to her apartment was cracked open. That’s right, she thought, before we left for the airport, Marshall opened the window to let a breeze in and I forgot to close it. With the security of the apartment, anybody could have gotten in.

She climbed into the kitchen and went to the bedroom. She sat on the warped wood floor to think. She would fill as many bags as she could…

But then why take anything at all? She went to her dresser and opened her jewelry box to collect her savings. Then she lifted the mattress, and emptied her purses, and checked all her jacket pockets. She took her favorite jewelry and put it on the floor beside the cash and change. Swatted a bug. She went to the bathroom and turned on the shower. The hot water felt great on her skin.

Dammit, she needed to keep his water warm. But that was impossible now. She’d probably drain the good fluids with the old water. She scrubbled her hair, staring at the gray tiles. The water felt so good. Why return to that dinky motel? She placed her hands on the tiles. What could she do in this situation besides leave her apartment forever or leave a skinless man to defend himself–

He was naked, too. Whoops. The only way he was getting out of that motel was in those women’s clothes. Carolin laughed a little.

She returned to her bedroom in a towel and stared into her closet. Her best summer clothes were in Africa, and weren’t coming back. She dressed in khaki shorts and a peach blouse with a neck bow. She looked around for any clothes Marshall might have left behind from the nights spent there. Under the bed, she saw a pair of blue underwear stuck behind the bedframe. So that meant one of those mornings he left commando.

She knocked his photo face down on the dresser, thought one better and removed the photo to rip it in half.

As she carried these to the trash in the kitchen, she realized anything he did leave behind would be too small to bring back. She washed her hands.

~

The motel bathroom floor was streaked with more blood, just a regularly updated murder scene. There was form in the dark dragged lines, feet but no exact toes. The water jug was on its side, blood smudged and empty, the wet nutrient packet inside. The faucet handles were bloody again, but the splotch on the mirror was clearer, and “Water” partially erased. The top of the mirror said “FOOD.” In blood, as usual.

 If he’s eating, I need to clean this mess up, she thought. Far below sterile operating conditions.

She filled the plastic bucket with water, loaded it with soap, and got mopping.

The blood only spread. She scrubbed it with a sponge, and soon her towels were completely wet. She refrained from speaking to herself in the motel room, in case he could hear. She didn’t want him to speak back, in case he’d decide to show himself.

When the sink was clean, she placed the two pairs of swim trunks she’d picked out from the store on the rim.

The mopping had accustomed her to the sound of water splashing. She only noticed it was from him when the curtain started to move.

Carolin ran out and shut the door. She could hear water splash the tiles. Then the worst part began. Moans. Low, breaking moans, rasping as if from a brutal cold, except the vocal cords must be coated in gore. Carolin watched the door, paralyzed. She listened for words, but the syllables had no message. Sputtering moans, cutting in and out like a bad radio.

She was more afraid when they stopped.

He must be in pain. What if this was the first time he could voice it? How was she going to sleep?

The doorknob twisted and fell in. Her hands were too slow to stop it.

Illuminated in the bathroom light was the bleeding shape of a man, thin wiry red muscles clinging to exposed bone, giving his thin muscles the impression of sliding off, held together with tendons, like human corned beef. His body was covered in a red film, pooling around his toes and dampening his loose red swim trunks. His green eyes had no lids, about to pop out. His face had no nose or lips, only holes for ears, teeth and a tongue.

“FOOD.”

Carolin fell back in fear, screaming wildly with her hands half over her head.

He slammed the door.

Carolin was on the floor, shaking.

Splashing. Curtain.

She’d thrown up a little in her mouth.

Her head throbbed as she used the bedframe to get to her feet. Meat, oh God. Where’s the nearest steakhouse?!

Swallowing the acid, she ran to the door, and almost forgot her wig.

~

The steakhouse: sweating, trying to keep her feet still.

“Yeah, four steaks, to go. Medium well. No catering… what salads do you have?”

~

She ran to the bathroom and knocked rapidly. She peered inside before entering, and set the to-go container opened beside the tub. “I got you steaks, like in your instructions. There’s a fork and knife in there.”

Before she could back away, a hand snatched a steak out of the box and disappeared behind the curtain.

Carolin quickly backed up and slipped, narrowly catching herself on the door frame.

She sat on the bed to eat her salad, but wasn’t very hungry.

~

She woke up to loud banging on the bathroom door. She sat bolt upright. There was a light under the door. The salad had flipped over on the covers.

“Yes?” she asked in the darkness.

The pounding stopped.

“FOOD.”

Carolin ran her fingers across her face. Then she grabbed the watch. Four am.

Where the hell am I going to get more foot now?

And what if she couldn’t find any?

Her breathing approached hyperventilation. She gathered up the salad and put the leaves back in the bowl. She started walking in circles with it.

Loud banging on the bathroom door.

He knows it isn’t locked…. if I don’t go to him he’s going to come to me.

“Ohmygod,” she whispered, breaking her circle to approach the door. She knocked back. “I only have a salad,” she said.

She heard muttering behind the door, but it wasn’t intelligible. The shower curtain moved on the rail. She knocked and said she was coming in.

The to-go container was licked clean. And so was the water jug, the floor… and the mirror… and the sink…

She lightly placed the salad and ran out, slamming the door.

The shower curtain screeched and she heard the water slosh around.

Apples! Were there apples in the lobby? Were they decorative?

And what about the water? She never refilled the jug! Maybe he could use the sink faucets? Maybe he cleaned up…?

Carolin pressed against the wall beside the front door. What the hell did I get myself into? she thought, What if he EATS ME?

She grabbed her hair and it fell off. “Aah!” Then she realized it was the wig. But no, humans can’t ingest wigs anyway, not even him. The paper, the paper…

She turned on the lamp and scrawled against the bedframe.

 

Will look for food. Please be patient. It is four am right now. Maybe no one will be open.

 

She folded it and jammed it under the door, and then sprinted outside onto the concrete second floor balcony, shoes half off. Down the stairs, to the front lobby. The inner door wasn’t locked. Maybe the owner expected nobody to visit until Carolin’s week was up.

Frantic. Anywhere there was food, grocery stores, kitchens, pantries, restaurants… People were asleep and doors were locked with pantries full of food. Food was stockpiled everywhere behind bolted doors. And what if he did wander out into the night? To EAT people?

Shit! The apples in the bowl in the sitting area were plastic. Mints! There was a bowl of mints on the counter. She searched behind it for more snacks, but there were only papers, files. She cradled the mints in her arms and dashed up to the motel room. She started slipping them under the door.

Oh my God, she thought, my life depends on these mints.

“Please, please… don’t be angry. It’s all I could find. I want you to know I’m not the kind of person that’s going to bring people here for you to eat. I draw the line at cannibalism.”

Oh my God, she thought, why am I giving him ideas?

She heard the wrappers crinkling, and as she was shoving mints under the door, her note came back, with spots.

It said, “Thanks.”

~

Carolin stared at the ceiling, on top of the covers, straining to hear the sound of mint wrappers.

~

In the morning, she stared at her feet, wondering how many more days of this she could take. She had grown him from the very green eyeballs Suarez had given her, but how would he react to the news about his fiancée…? That she was the only one feeding him…? He probably knew.

Until he had some skin, he was going to have to mourn in there.

Carolin’s father died when she was seventeen. That was six years ago.

Her mother would expect a call from her by now, that she’d returned to the U.S.

But Carolin wasn’t ready to be in the U.S. yet.

Not with him in the bathroom.

~

She knocked. Went in. There were a few blood spots mingled with the wrappers. “I got you a bucket of chicken. The instructions said steak, but I figured you meant protein. I also got a few Gatorades…” She twisted off the lids.

There was a sploosh behind the curtain.

“Uh, lemon-lime and orange…”

Carolin was surprised by a sort of sob behind the curtain. She collected the trash. At the doorway she asked if he would like the light off, so he wouldn’t have to get out.

“NO.”

Right…who would want to eat in the dark… Even he had his standards.

The blue swim trunks were still on the sink. Once he had skin he wouldn’t need the red ones to hide the blood, so she reasoned. She saw the pink hand snatch the bucket of chicken as she drew the door closed. Today she would buy clothes. He would need them soon.

~

Carolin felt embarrassed wandering around the men’s department. She picked up a white shirt, remembered he liked orange. When she saw a sales associate coming toward her, she escaped down the other end of the row and looked for shorts. What was his waist size? 38 inches? God knows. Carolin was a 28. She gave up, and took a medium and a large. The sales attendant was on the move. She hurried to the socks. What the hell size were his shoes? Why didn’t she just ask?

The attendant’s voice was at her back. “Hello, ma’am, is there–”

Carolin shouted and dropped the pants.

“Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He was a Black twenty-something in chunky black glasses and white pants pulled up too high.

Right, the wig, he probably thinks I’m a cross-dresser, she thought.

“Can I help you with anything?”

“Uh, yes, actually, could you put all these things back? I’m just going to get these socks.”

“Searching for a birthday gift, huh?” He smiled and nodded. “Yup. Finding a gift can be hard when you don’t know his size… But those socks will knock his old socks right off!” He chuckled.

Carolin smiled painfully and handed him the other clothes. She turned but he said, “Well, if you’re done shopping, I can ring you up right over there.”

She suffered his finger pointing toward the counter, yards away, and followed him, and his very slow pace, holding her rejected clothes, thinking, Yeah, I’m growing a man in my motel bathtub… She endured formalities up to his, “Have a nice day,” and then fled the store.

~

She sat on the motel carpet with the pen sweaty in her right hand. The note was complete, but she was nervous to slide it under the door. She wasn’t confident to knock, peek inside, and say, “Hey, uh… what are your measurements?”

Especially not with the hot water running.

She looked at the note.

 

What size clothing do you wear? Shirt, pants, etc…

 

Carolin held her face, and took a chicken wing from the bucket sitting against her knee. Ah, fuck, she thought, and got up. Knock. Enter. Chicken. Gatorade. Note. Exit.

The bathroom was steamy. The red swim trunks were on the floor. Carolin set down the chicken, the Gatorade, and the socks, picked up the empty paper bucket, and glanced at the mirror on the way out to make sure it didn’t say “SEX.”

She finished the chicken wing and took a sip of her own Gatorade. She looked outside. The owner’s car had appeared. That was okay. She had said a week, and uh… that was tomorrow. No, two days…

If he was showering, did it mean he had skin? Or hair? Or maybe he needed to wash the grease off from all the chicken…

Carolin recounted her money: with the cash from the bank vault, and everything from her apartment, over $2,000. She could thank her father for leaving her vault money in cash when he died of cardiac arrest. And for writing a will in his forties.

Yes, and she could thank that acid pit and Suarez for leaving her with two green eyeballs that were now a man showering in the other room. Now that man was humming.

When the water squeaked off, Carolin was on the bed rereading Breakfast of Champions.

She waited to see if the door would open. It didn’t.

~

Carolin went down to the lobby to use the bathroom before bed. On her way the motel owner called, “Hey, what, you ate all the mints?”

Carolin admitted, yes.

“Jeez, those cost money. I mean, jeez… that’s a lotta mints.”

“I’ll have the money for you tomorrow.”

“Hah?”

“For the car.”

“Oh, thanks, yeah. Hope so.”

Carolin shut the bathroom door. If he noticed the toothbrush and paste, she hoped he wouldn’t ask. The motel owner should have enough experience with odd tenants to ignore things like that.

When she came out, he wasn’t there anyway.

~

She was happy and comfortable when she finished the book. She reached for the lamp when she noticed her note on the carpet, spat from the bathroom.

 

Shirt: M

Pants: M

Shoes: 10.5

Underwear: M

Baseball cap, any.

Sunglasses: dark, large and wraparound if possible.

And throw a pillow in here, dammit.

Thx for sox.

 

She was kind of hoping for numbers… A bizarre situation, reading a list of clothes for a skinless man living in her bathroom. Under that he gave a list for food items.

 

Foods: Nuts, oranges, cheese, uno mas bucket of chicken, water.

 

So weird… so he expected to have skin tomorrow? She recalled the last time she saw the hand reach for chicken, and realized it did seem spotty, but she assumed it was tendons. Maybe it was skin. So what did he look like now? A burn victim? And was the hot shower to get rid of any dead skin or to test its durability? Or his pain tolerance? Questions…

She didn’t think she was going to sleep well. She hadn’t been. Cheese? He wanted cheese? He was getting awfully picky… She hoped he wouldn’t come through the door on his own, after that last experience. She wondered if there had been any reason in wearing those swim trunks at that point in his development. She wondered.

Anyway, if he was able to wear a hat, eat chicken, and demand cheese, he was probably in a condition to go out. She should broach this subject with her voice, tomorrow. She knocked at the bathroom with a spare pillow and the covers. The tiles by the tub were a little wet so she left the bedding under the sink. The red trunks were on the rim, but the blue trunks and the socks were absent. She took the paper bucket out with a smile. “Thx for sox,” he’d said. And “dammit;” he was even writing like a human.

Carolin was nervous for tomorrow, but the regeneration phase had to end somewhere. She couldn’t keep him isolated in there much longer. He’d have to be grateful for her building him back up from his eyeballs. Tomorrow she could finally ask her burning questions. Then maybe they could get dinner, and figure out what to do, whether she should go home or just disappear. If anything, she didn’t want him to, after all the terror, blood, sweat, and tears that went into resurrecting him.

It would be nice to talk face-to-face. He owed her that at least.

~

The morning that her week was up, Carolin heard a knock from the bathroom. She sat up and cleared her throat. “Yes?”

A note slid under the door.

Carolin got up and walked to it.

 

Can I come out now?

 

Carolin ran to the watch. Seven-thirty-six. She slipped it on.

Fantastic. She should have bought clothes last night, but it was already late then, and though she felt relatively safe he wasn’t going to eat her, that didn’t mean the night bus routes were any safer.

“I’ll be back with clothes,” she said to the door. “Maybe half an hour.”

There was a resigned “houffff” behind the door.

~

When she twisted her motel key in the lock with bags over her arm, a bucket of chicken in the other elbow, the room was dim, lit by the window. She was startled to find a lanky bald man hunched on the green armchair in nothing but socks and blue swim trunks.

The bald man looked up as Carolin stared with the door still half open.

“By the way, I’m bald.” He opened his hands. “Toss me an orange.”

Carolin tossed him an orange.

He tapped it with his nailless fingers. He tossed it back.

Carolin clumsily caught it and set the bags on the bed. She separated the clothes and carried them over.

“Thanks.”

“You have… two hands,” she said.

He glanced back as he took the bag into the bathroom and shut the door.

Carolin pulled off the black wig and sat on the bed.

He came out in an orange shirt, white shorts, a light blue cap with orange stripes, and dark metal framed sunglasses. The clothes were loose on his boney frame. He gestured.

“Hit me.”

“What?”

“¡Queso!”

Carolin dug in the bag and peeled the wax before tossing it.

He chomped on it like a pear in the middle of the room as Carolin took the bag of nuts out and began peeling an orange.

When he licked his lips with the last of the cheese and glanced her way, Carolin was ready to toss the orange. As he bit straight into that, she noticed his right arm was noticeably smaller compared to the left.

“If you could regenerate from scratch, why is your right arm thinner?”

He looked up, slurping the orange juices, paused to speak, but resumed chomping. When he gestured for another orange, Carolin only continued to peel, waiting.

“Had to stave off the munchies.”

Carolin raised her eyebrows and threw the orange. She transferred her energies to ripping the bag of nuts open. Stave off? Munchies? Chewing his own arm? Chewing? His own? Arm? Oh my God, cannibalism. Oh my God.

He looked up, chomping away.

I can feel his eyes on me even through those shades. What the hell, I should have saved his fiancée, but I thought she wouldn’t forgive me if I didn’t save those eyeballs. When I tell him, he’s gonna kill me… No, he has to be grateful. He chewed his own arm, so he has to be… Unless he’s using me until he’s fully healed, and he looks pretty healed to me… Time will soon run out for my use…

“Not the worst way you could have spent the American dollar,” he said, licking his fingers. “I would spot you, but.” He waved to the two suitcases and grinned. “My things aren’t here.” He put his left hand on his hip, and the right wrist, then looking at it, shifted his right hand on his hip instead. “You took me off the goddamn continent, with her suitcases…” He raised his hand toward the bed. “Bought a black wig…”

Carolin remained motionless with her knees under her, imagining how many seconds it would take to reach the door.

“Brought me back into being. Grateful? Heh. HEH. Heh. Heh.”

Carolin slid her hand through the sheets for the key. He’s whole but he’s weak. Much weaker than Marshall was. I am in control. I control his actions. He doesn’t control me. I’ll keep him as happy as possible. I brought him back to being, why should he be mad at me? Be mad at the acid pit, but not me.

~

They walked to the Pacer together, Carolin carrying the suitcases, wig wearing, and him carrying the bucket of chicken, eating. She used the keys to open the door. It smelled of sunbaked plastic.

The owner brought his brown Buick nose-to-nose with the Pacer and connected his jumper cables to the engine. Carolin got the Pacer to grumble and the pear shaped man in the Buick gave a thumbs up.

“One grand,” said the owner.

“There’s still a lot of stuff in the backseat…” said Carolin.

“Take it.”

“It might need new tires.”

“Eight-hundred.”

“Seven.”

“Seven-fifty.”

“Deal.”

They shook, the cash passed hands then and there. “Last I checked, the title’s in the glove box.”

The owner smiled and waved as Carolin unlocked the trunk to load the suitcases. Then she got behind the wheel and the bald man grown inside the motel tub got in shotgun, eating chicken.

Car doors shut.

“Try not to make a mess.” Carolin smiled and shifted into reverse.

He swallowed. “It’s far too late for that,” he said, “For you and me.” He took another wing.

Carolin pulled out of the motel parking lot. She had no plan, no direction. Left: stay with the man she spent two weeks incubating in the bathtub, building him up with nutrients and proteins, bone and blood and muscle from two green eyeballs, or Right: take him where he wanted to go and then return to her apartment and her life, deal with the ex, the family, and the consequences… the two could not mix.