This Skin Was Once Mine and Other Disturbances

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

This Skin was once Mine

October 25, 2021

October 11, 2021

October 12, 2021

April 1, 2021

May 14, 2001

October 16, 2021

May 16, 2001

October 18, 2021

July 6, 2000

October 19, 2021

October 20, 2021

October 25, 2021

Seedling

All The Parts of you that Won’t Easily Burn

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Prickle

Acknowledgments

About the Author

PRAISE FOR

THIS SKIN WAS ONCE MINE and Other Disturbances

Eric LaRocca’s distinctive literary voice is a welcome addition to queer horror. I look forward to seeing his legacy grow.

Poppy Z. Brite, author of Exquisite Corpse

"Eric LaRocca keeps getting better. Grotesque, heartbreaking, and deeply unsettling, this is the kind of transgressive horror that exposes the vulnerable human heart, that reminds us of our shared pain. Just the byline on his

work—‘by

Eric

LaRocca’—should

be considered a trigger warning. You know going in that it’s going to hurt. Caveat lector."

Christopher Golden, author of The House of Last Resort and Road of Bones

Eric LaRocca is a singular talent, who writes ruthlessly, beautifully, bravely about brutality, who challenges readers to find their humanity, and ultimately hope, in the face of such horrors.

Rachel Harrison, author of The Return and Black Sheep

"Eric LaRocca distorts spaces, both internal and external, creating new cavities within our bodies, fresh chasms in our minds, and flooding them with nothing but absolute terror. This Skin Was Once Mine and Other Disturbances makes for exquisite suffering and confirms LaRocca’s mantle as the heir apparent to Clive Barker and Poppy Z. Brite. Glory be to the new king of horror."

Clay McLeod Chapman, author of What Kind of Mother and Ghost Eaters

A twisty, intricate gathering of bleak fates. Beneath the skin of delicate prose lies indelicate menace. Eric LaRocca has penned a book that’s obsessively captivating, wherein even hope hurts like a shard of glass.

Hailey Piper, Bram Stoker Award®-winning author of Queen of Teeth

An intense collection that stalks its way around the kinship between pleasure and pain. LaRocca’s tremendous empathy allows him to look unblinkingly at the dark corners that others turn away from, in a way that makes his horror not only devastating but heartbreaking.

Brian Evenson, author of The Glassy, Burning Floor of Hell

These raw and brilliant stories lure you in and then slice you to the core. Their terrors and scars will persist. Cutting, insightful horror from a new master.

Tim Lebbon, author of The Silence and Among the Living

THIS

SKIN WAS

ONCE MINE

AND OTHER

DISTURBANCES

Also by Eric LaRocca

and available from Titan Books:

Things Have Gotten Worse Since Last We Spoke

and Other Misfortunes

The Trees Grew Because I Bled There:

Collected Stories

Everything the Darkness Eats

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This Skin Was Once Mine and Other Disturbances

Hardback edition ISBN: 9781803366647

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803366654

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: April 2024

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Eric LaRocca asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Copyright © 2024 Eric LaRocca. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Dear reader,

Thank you for your care and consideration while approaching This Skin Was Once Mine and Other Disturbances.

I wrote these four tales over the span of two years while I was overwhelmed with thoughts about the dynamics of certain

relationships—specifically

the ways in which we inherently harm one another and the obsessions we nurture to prevent further suffering. It should be obvious to note that all the stories collected here deal with human pain and trauma in some form or another.

Though you may already be familiar with my writing prior to opening this book, I wholeheartedly encourage you to check in with yourself before carrying on. I’ve been prompted by my editor to warn you that this book includes graphic depictions of child abuse and self-harm. Each story is intensely claustrophobic as well. I expect these elements will be distressing for some readers, so I heartily suggest you sincerely consider whether or not you’d like to subject yourself to such upsetting material.

Before you press onward, please take a moment to put down this book and truly consider how you’d like to proceed. Go for a walk. Listen to music. Make a cup of tea. Please consider this a final warning before you begin.

Regardless of your decision, thank you for approaching this collection with such attention and thoughtfulness.

Eric LaRocca

October 2023, Boston, MA

For Paul Tremblay

A devoted friend and a fearless writer

Through indiscriminate suffering men know fear and fear is the most divine emotion. It is the stones for altars and the beginning of wisdom. Half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. Real gods require blood.

Zora Neale Hurston

The past is never dead. It’s not even past.

William Faulkner

OCTOBER 25, 2021

The worst thing a person can do to you after they’ve hurt you is let you live.

That’s how you truly and unmistakably destroy another human being.

I say this with some authority on the matter. While many might reason that the greatest cruelty of all would be to offer hope to someone who clearly has none, I would instead argue that the gift of survival after unspeakable trauma is a much more excruciating fortune.

There’s nothing romantic, nothing decidedly empowering about becoming a survivor. Of course, television has played a significant role in our cultural perception of survivors as strong, unbeatable, and almost divine pillars of integrity. We fawn over the image of the bald child who’s receiving their last dose of chemotherapy. We praise the sight of the blood-soaked high-schooler who crawled across a pile of dead classmates and made their way to safety.

Naturally, there’s an audience for anything and everything. People will always be drawn to the idea of someone succeeding and becoming something truly glorious after they’ve been ravaged, defiled, very nearly obliterated. But I can assure you there’s nothing magnificent or outstanding about it. It is no rare, distinguished gift to survive tragedy, disaster, misfortune.

Nobody talks about the quiet, unbearable moments when the cameras aren’t rolling, when the interviewers aren’t shoving microphones in your face and asking you, What does it feel like? Nobody mentions the quiet desperation of those who have

survived—the

quiet desperation to feel human, to connect with others, to be anonymous once more.

When the woman who has been assaulted finally takes her own life after existing in misery, in agonizing desolation for nearly five months, we don’t praise her. We don’t refer to her now as the divine being we once called her. We certainly don’t think of her as brave. Instead, we say things like: What a pity, Not surprised, or, She’s in a better place now.

There’s nothing glorious or wonderful about being a survivor. Those that like to hurt other people know this for a fact. Perhaps that’s why they go out of their way to cause heartache, despair. Maybe they get their kicks out of knowing that someone will survive their desecration and will be forever marked by what they’ve

done—permanently

stained.

I’ve learned that if you want someone to truly suffer, let them live.

OCTOBER 11, 2021

I sit in my car while it idles in the grocery store parking lot.

I lean over the passenger seat, opening a plastic bag filled with the various parts to build a small model airplane made from balsa wood.

A woman’s voice speaks to me over the car radio.

Now. Repeat after me, the voice tells me. I am a kind, compassionate, and caring person.

I begin snapping the paper-thin wooden pieces in half until they’re a fine assortment of needle-thin slivers.

I am a kind, compassionate, and caring person, I say.

People like me, the woman says.

I can’t help but laugh at myself. The muscles in my throat flex as I swallow hard. The

words—too

difficult for me to repeat.

"People

like…"

But I cannot finish the sentence.

People are drawn to me because I am worthy of the same kindness and compassion, the woman’s voice tells me.

I sense my cheeks heating red. People are drawn to me because I am worthy of the same kindness and compassion.

I hold one of the wooden needles I’ve fashioned from the model airplane set and I guide the tip beneath a pinch of skin along my wrist.

Very good, the woman says as I stab myself. Of course, these things can be very difficult to remember when we’re faced with the anxiety of meeting and connecting with other people. In social settings, be mindful to remain ‘present.’ Be in your body. You have the magnificent power to draw people in and have them connect with you. Only you have that ability.

I pick up another shaving of balsa wood and I inspect my hand for my next penance.

Look in the mirror and practice meeting a new person and connecting with them, the woman directs.

I decide on my open palm. I stab myself there.

Remember the three important steps to building a connection. Eye contact. Firm handshake. Name. Repeat after me: Hi. My name is (blank).

I press the splinter along the surface of my hand until it’s buried beneath the skin. My eyes water at the pain.

Hi, I say. My name is Jillian.

It’s very nice to meet you, the woman on the recording says.

It’s very nice to meet you.

Very good, she says. Now. Repeat it again. Only this time, at the end, say a little something about yourself.

I lower the mirror above the steering wheel. At first, I’m hesitant to face my likeness. After much resistance, my reflection meets my gaze.

I see all color drain from my face.

Hi, I say. My name is Jillian. And I’m terrified of you.

*   *   *

That’s nice, the pockmarked Assistant Store Manager tells me as soon as I’ve introduced myself. This way.

He clears his throat, adjusting the square-shaped eyeglasses balancing on the tip of his pimple-dotted nose.

I’m a deer in headlights.

I carry a leather almond-colored briefcase with a golden lock. There is a lanyard around my neck displaying my name, photograph, and certifications. My head is wrapped in a hair net.

I hold up the ID badge for him to approve.

The neon-colored Band-Aid glued to my wrist startles

me—a

gruesome reminder of my transgressions. I sense my face paling, fearful he might make some senseless comment.

He doesn’t even pay it a second glance.

I lurch forward, following the Assistant Store Manager’s spiritless stride through the entryway and further into the market.

"I—didn’t

get your name," I say to him.

I’m unsteady as I walk. My feet seem to be apprehensive in my new, expensive pair of high heels. Why had I decided to wear them today? After all, who am I trying to impress?

11410, the Assistant Store Manager barks at me.

I look at him with the utmost concern. Those are numbers?

He doesn’t look at me when he speaks. They sent Isaac Newton this time.

The Assistant Store Manager ushers me into the produce section. I fumble to open my briefcase, unfolding a small notebook and loosening a pen to write.

I’ll need your name for my report, I tell him.

No names here, he tells me. Just numbers. Aisle twelve. Cleaners. Ziploc. Dish soap. Paper goods. Aisle eleven. Popcorn. Candy. Chips. Aisle ten. Cereal. Crackers. What other numbers do you want?

My eyes dart about like a trapped animal as he leads me about the maze of bins arranged with fresh fruits and vegetables.

"I was just

asking—"

Number of pounds of vegetables delivered daily. Two-hundred-seventy-five. Number of shopping carts to be accounted for at open and close. One-hundred-fifteen. Number of days until one of these idiots finds the pound of Gruyere I hid in the heat vent. To be determined.

I stammer, my breath becoming rapid, as I steer through aisles filled with customers, screaming children, and half-filled shopping carts.

"I’m

afraid—I’m

going to have to put that in my report," I tell him.

He looks nonplussed. Feel free to add how Stanley in the meat department refuses to wash his hands after bathroom breaks. I don’t give a rat’s turd that he’s been here for eleven years. The man’s been diagnosed with genital warts five times. I’d stay away from the veal if I were you.

My stomach begins to curl. I feel queasy, my knees threatening to buckle.

"Is

there—a

bathroom?" I ask him.

The Assistant Store Manager glances at his wristwatch. In the back. Knock first. Carlos from produce and Angela from customer service usually have it reserved at this time.

I shake my head in disbelief and attempt to center myself. This may take me a few hours.

Stay as long as you like, he tells me. If you need anything, please hesitate to ask.

He throws me a look of disgust and then storms off.

The latch on my briefcase immediately responds, loosening and scattering my papers all over the tiled floor.

Employees skirt around me, whispering to one another, as I kneel to collect the mess like an invisible servant.

*   *   *

I stand behind the counter of the delicatessen, intently inspecting a thermometer inside the end of a freshly cooked chicken in a plastic container.

Once I draw the bulb out, I hold the stem under a lamp and squint to read. I shake my head at the reading and then solemnly make a note in my notebook, as if I were recording the death of a child.

Just then, I hear snickering.

The shrillness of the laughter grows louder and louder as if it were intended to attract my attention.

I lift my head and see two female employees hovering across the aisle, maliciously glancing at me and then passing soundless words between one another.

I can feel my face softening, my eyes returning to the thermometer and my