My friend started picking at her fingernails.

There's a lot I still don't understand about how she got so bad off. She is normal, so well balanced, rational; I mean, she has a Master's for gods' sake. Yes, she loves bar hopping and going to parties, but she's never been an addict or anything. She doesn't have benders, hell, I can't even remember the last time she had a hangover. And a drug is the only thing that makes sense to blame this on. I mean, how else can someone so methodically do that to themselves? It's outrageous! And utterly disturbing.

If I hadn't been thinking so hard about it over the last few weeks, it was like it came out of nowhere. But I finally think I pinpointed when it started. She and I went to a bar almost a month back. A small scene, everything around here is a small scene. Not that we live in a small town or anything, it's underwhelmingly medium. But from what I hear, there are just fewer people everywhere since the... Well, I'm sure you know what I mean, and I don't want to think about it right now. It all just makes my skin crawl.

The thing that finally made it all stand out to me was that shady guy she talked to that night. And by shady, I really mean it, one of those trying so hard to blend in, he stands out. Head to toe in black, full-length trench coat, a fucking bowler hat for gods' sake – brim pulled well over his forehead. I think he had white hair, but that doesn't feel right. Maybe he was bald? And just pale as all hells. But that doesn't feel right either because I thought he had a small ponytail tucked under his coat. It's hard to say; it was many weeks ago, and so much has happened since then. The one thing I remember for sure was his ankles. Not only because they were almost the only thing you could see of him, but they were thin. Far too thin. Like, if they weren't full-length, I would've said he was wearing children's socks. It was hard to believe that they could support the weight of a full-grown man.

The whole vibe of the man made my spine itch, and I did my best to avoid looking over at him. But something in Jess was fully captivated by him. More than once, she asked me to go with her to talk to me. I can't remember what her reasoning was to want to talk to him, nor why she wanted me with her. It wasn't a safety thing, I know for sure. One, she wouldn't talk to someone she didn't think was safe. Two, she didn't use the safety code word. Lastly, she was in no harm; we were in a public bar where people knew us and in plain view.

Finally, she shrugged off her efforts and left me to flirt with the bartender. Don't judge me, he's already my boyfriend.

That was it. She went and talked to him for two or three hours – I had asked Garrem later and, from what he could remember, the man didn't order anything the whole night. 'Only refilled his peanut bowl because Jess was there.' She had a bad tendency to 'accidentally' spill the bowls, right into a handy zip lock hidden in her purse. And like I said, that was it.

She didn't talk about him on the walk home; she definitely didn't complain about him. She didn't ask me to try some new drug with her – something that if she had been trying, she would've at least had me there with her. But it has to be a drug… I… Won't get off on a tangent.

This is why it was so hard for me to figure out when it all started. But the only thing that makes sense is that night, with that guy. Because that was the last time we went out. And she never goes out without me. And we didn't go out again until that evening when we met up for coffee.

I followed the thought trail back from when I noticed her nail-picking habit started. I should've picked up on it sooner. She'd always been a bit of a nail 'chewer'; chewing on the tips of her nails – especially when she wore acrylic ones. But never biting them off. She'd never risked damaging her precious nails. But by the time I took note of what she was doing, damage was done. We were having lunch at my place one day when I caught her.

"You know we have leftovers if you're still hungry?"

"Hu?"

I had paused the movie we were watching for ten minutes before confronting her. She didn't even notice. "You've been chewing on your fingers like they're the last biscuit and you're a starving child."

"Eh." She still stared blankly at the unmoving screen.

"I know Garrem's cooking is bad, but there's still some in there if you'd like."

"Mhm." She said, still chewing away.

"Okay! Time to…" I pulled her hand out of her mouth. "Geez! Oh my goodness, girl."

She had chewed down the sides of most of her fingers to the lowest layer of skin. Her thumb itched at the edge of that hole, even while I held her hand. Scratching at it till it caught, and then peeled that edge up. Widening the hole and ripping open the thin flesh barrier. I slapped at her hand, and blood flicked onto my couch from similar small tears on each finger.

Worst of all, she had picked at her nail folds so much, on every nail, that I could see they were slit in multiple places. Whole chunks were missing from where she had torn them back. Leaving blood-stippled streaks down her fingers. Some stripped up to the first joint or even passed it.

We spent the rest of the night in the bathroom as I tended to her mangle nails. Hoping that we could still heal them by the time she came back to her senses.

I should've never sent her home that night. Something was clearly wrong with her. I'd known meth heads before, and this was extreme for even some of the things they did. But still, once I had her bandaged up, I guess I just assumed she'd go back to being her. Everything would heal, and it would just be a horrible lapse of judgment.

A few days passed, and I was free of work once more, so I rang Jess up. I had been so busy that the thought of what had happened barely passed through my mind. We talked for a while, and all seemed normal. Normal Jess, forgettable conversation, then we agreed to meet up for a coffee. We never even made it into the café.

When she waved at me from across the street, I thought she might be trying some new fashion trend – plamless gloves. But the truth struck me like a truck when we convened in front of the café. Without even a thought, I ran her to the hospital.

Four of her nails had been completely torn off, two only half remained – peeled off from left to right, and the other two were split like she had been trying to rip them from the nail bed directly from the center of the nail. Nor did it stop there. The strips of torn cuticles that I had bandage the other day were now full gashes, slit all the way up to the back of her hands.

What dazed me, spinning my vision every time I looked at her mutilated hands, was her thumbs. They were almost pristine, comparatively, though they too were bloodied and cracked – it seemed she had intentionally left them to continue her picking. I hadn't even noticed her mouth till the doctor made a note of it in the ER. Her gums were swollen and cut from the chewing. Her lips ruptured and ripped in multiple places; he presumed from the maneuvering she had to do and how often she was doing it. "Repeated trauma of bumping and stretching, plus dryness from continually having her mouth open. I'm honestly surprised she doesn't have an oral infection. We found fragments of her nails embedded within the gums."

"Can you please run a drug test on her?"

"Already done. All negative."

"All negative. For like everything?"

"Well, no. We run an 11-panel here."

"Well, I want a 100-panel ran. She's clearly on something!"

The doctor calmly informed me that he would have it sent out to be tested for rarer substances, but it would take a few days. – It too came back completely clear.

"Please consider a mental health check-up. Though she was in a 'clear zone' – before and after most mental disorders developing – doesn't mean it isn't possible. Does anything run in her family?"

"No. Not that I know of. Her grandpa just died of a heart attack last year, eighty-nine. But nothing mental, and her family isn't the kind to bury that kind of stuff."

"Hmm… Well. If it just stopped at nail-biting, I count it as stress. But this," he indicated to the room where the nurse was fixing Jess up. "I'll set her up with a therapist and give a script for pain and a general antibiotic, just in case. And maybe, have her stay with you till the appointment with the therapist?"

I wish I had questioned him then; why didn't he admit her, commit her, and why pain pills? What was most disturbing was that she seemed fine. Only rating her pain a four out of ten; 'Noticeable but tolerable.' And she was acting exactly normal, flirting with the nurse as he stitched her up. Complimenting the phlebotomist for wearing a new trendy hairstyle. And it wasn't that she couldn't feel, she winced both as they drew blood and numbed her for the stitches. She seemed happy, happier than I'd seen her in a while. A thought that continues to rattle around in my skull. I wish I had asked, known, seen so much more than I did. But hindsight and all that, I guess. And hindsight was forced upon me after that night.

I still blame the doctor. What kind of idiot gave a patient with such 'advance Dermatillomania' pain suppressants!?

Part 2

Sorry. I had to walk away from this for a bit. Thinking about Jess and how much she has damage herself with this awful skin-picking habit just makes me feel so helpless. And thinking about that idiot doctor not holding her overnight for observation… No. That's not fair. It's not all on him. As I said, I have hindsight now, and it was my fault too. I knew in my bones that something was going on with her. But I just trusted in his word and figured all would be okay. I almost shouldn't have trusted a doctor with a bandaged forearm – 'scraped in a skiing incident'. In May?!

But again. It's on me too. I was the one who gave her the pain pills. I was the one who chose to sleep in the living room instead of her bed like we normal did. I was just too frustrated with Garrem; I didn't want to be alone.

Yes, I understand that he and I agreed that he could have his gaming night with his guys weeks earlier. But our friend was literally tearing his hands apart. I think they would've understood. But whatever. Jess and I ended up just going to her place, and I stayed the night there. I guess in some cases, two eyes are better than four. But again, that puts no one but me at blame for what happened that night. Can't even blame it on Jess because she was clearly out of her mind.

After a good long pout on the couch, and I was sure Jess would be knocked out from the meds and stress her body had been through, I went to check on her. Jess was the type of person who had a nightlight in every room of her place. Not because she was scared of the dark, almost the opposite. She never used her over headlights at all. And if you flipped one on without warning her, she would hiss – comedically. So when I saw the glow of a well-lit room flooding out from her bedroom, my skin prickled.

I knocked and tried the handle. It was locked. Now I was truly frightened. Jess only locked her door for one reason: if she was getting nude. Moreover, that was only when literally anyone else was around. The third time I had walked in on her getting ready for a shower, or just after, she told me, "You're like my brother. Hell, like a twin. To me, it's just like you're looking in a mirror." I appreciated the sentiment, but never could get use to the shock of it. It's why I started knocking even if her door was cracked. But for it to be locked… "Jess? Hun. Can you let me in?"

I could count the seconds with the pounding of my heart against my chest. I knocked again. I knew she kept a room key somewhere in the living room, but my mind didn't go there. My bones were locked in place, awaiting on bated breath. I called out once more. "One second." She yelled from far across the room, well passed where her bed was. Maybe at her art desk? At the time, I couldn't have been sure.

A yawning, time-altering moment stretched before me, but as I raised my fist for another knock, the light at my feet vanished. The lock clicked out of place, and I heard her leap to her bed. I flung to door open like a mother expecting to catch underage sex and flicked the light on. She didn't hiss; her eyes were covered with a night mask. The playful eye winking of the eye mask made it feel like it too was hiding an eerie secret.

Blood stained and caked the floor as well as her blankets. The rusty brown of her previous exploits were highlighted in the fully lit room. I had been so upset earlier I hadn't even thought to check, and decided to clean it up in the morning. The most important thing was for me to make sure she hadn't picked at her stitches or something. I stormed over, feeling like she was my child. "Let me see your hands."

She slid them up from under the blankets and flopped them over the comforter. I looked them over, grabbing them, flipping them to inspect both sides. Some blood had leaked through the backs of her hands and more at the tips of some fingers – just from normal usage, I figured. But they were still expertly wrapped, a skill I didn't expect she had – I was clearly wrong. "Everything okay?"

The bandages hadn't even been picked, nor had the sores around her mouth. "I just thought…" Then fear stunned my heart as the horrible wicking eye stared at me. My hand snatched it off without thought. She hissed and squirmed. I nabbed her wrist as she tried to hide from the light and pulled them away from her face.

"Thanks for blinding me! Now it's going to take me forever to get back to sleep." Her judgmental eyes stared daggers at me. They were prefect, untouched.

I let out a breath. "I'm sorry. I'm just so caught up and…"

"You're worried about me. I get it. I appreciate everything you've been doing for me. Really. I'm sorry." We hugged. "You know what would really help? Another one of those pain meds. To help me get back to sleep?"

I waved a finger and felt guilty I had. "You get another no sooner than four more hours."

"Fair. Fair." She waved her gauze mittens in surrender.

"Now get some more sleep. I'm going to call Garrem and apologize for how I acted in front of his friends. We should've just come here anyway." She just nodded with a smile and held her head up for me to replace the eye mask. I did so and kissed her sweaty forehead. "You warm? Want me to pull some covers off?"

"No. Nah. I'm good."

"Alright. See you in a few hours."

I shouldn't have left her side.

I set an alarm. Called Garrem. And within minutes of his reassuring voice. I promptly passed out.

I woke to the sounds of dripping coming from the kitchen. I slapped my hand over my phone; it was well past time to give Jess her pill. Somehow, the alarm never went off – I always woke to my alarm, no matter how quiet the volume. The continued dripping pulled my mind from the puzzlement. The TV has been switched off too, which could have been me, but it still raised my alertness. I called out for Jess, but no one answered back. Of course, I convinced myself, she was asleep in her room. Probably in pain because of me. Little had I known that she had been the one to sabotage me.

Lifting myself off the couch, I flicked the TV back on for extra light and stood, stretching out the aches of a middle-aged person sleeping on a couch much too small for them. I'm joints wanted to be loosed from the entanglement I had put them in. I'm not sure if that was the moment I saw it or if it was when I turned on the overhead; all I know is that light illuminated the bloody foot tracks in the carpet leading to the kitchen. I still hear my own wavering voice calling out to her. "Jess?" I turned to the kitchen and called once more. My eyes, unable to pull from the uneven red stride leading to the linoleum and the dark.

The dripping continued, but was blotted out by the wet slaps of footsteps moving towards me in the dark. "I'm coming." Her voice was wrong. It was lacking, not in tone – it was still Jess talking as normal, more in pronunciation or enunciation. "Just another moment. I'll be free and then I'll teach you how." A crimson-drenched foot slatted into the light flowing around the corner from the living room. But it wasn't just blood, it was a horrifying red – the bright red of trauma. The type you only pretend to see in movies.

Her skin had been peeled off up to the bottom of her ankle. The bare muscles of her foot leaked out its tenuous attempts at clots as she shifted her weight to drag the rest of her into the light. Her other foot was worse; blood flowed over from the shin, fleshly skinned up to the knee, over the exposed tendons. The pale pink of the bare bone creaked with another step. As the fear soaked in every detail, I saw that she had not purposely kept the muscles around her ankle, for it strained to hold her full weight as it was. Black fibers clung around the horror as if she had worn socks over the destruction. I still wonder, had I pulled her covers back when checking her over, could I have prevented all this?

Unblinking, terror-controlled eyes drift up her untouched thighs, following the blood-soaked cloth of her shorts and shirt up to her face. I couldn't handle any more – I tried to focus on her eyes, but the revealed cheek and jawbone on only one side of her face made me loss it.

I dropped to my knees and heaved my stomach contents on the floor. My vision tunneled as I hadn't breathed in what felt like minutes and now couldn't has I continued to retch.

A lifetime stretched by, and finally, I gasped for breath and folded into a soul-aching sob. A weight crouched down beside me. “Isth_ohaa.” I felt the air expelling the words from her missing cheek against my hair. Every function of my body seized up. Each word was too airy or ended with a, normally muffled, clack of teeth. "Don't worry. I'm fine. And it's so much easier now that I have no pain. Look." My body still refusing to respond to action, I was forced to watch as her arm drifted into my view. A knife protruded out of both sides of her forearm, deeply buried under the flesh. I began uncontrollably shaking as a hand, bare of all but bone and tendons, gently gripped the handle. My eyes widen as if they weren't taking in enough detail – my brain still failing to send commands to my body.

Then the skeletal hand moved.

Sliding the blade back towards the elbow, a fountain of blood waterfalled out as I heard the metal strap along the bone like a guide line. A grunt and breath expelled bloody flecks onto my face. A switch flipped, and everything regained functioning. I shoulder towards what used to be my friend and heard the miserable sound of unprotected bones sliding against each other. Jess slumped to the ground in a mix of groans, gasps, and chuckles.

In some miracle, I snag my phone and booked it to the door. Jess's distorted voice called out, "Come back! We can be free together!"

I didn't stop running till I was two blocks from her place. Thinking back on it, I probably would've been safe just outside the building – she wasn't going anywhere on that destroyed ankle. Well. I guess that assumption was wrong, too. For when the cops finally got there and went to search her place, they found no trace of her. No trace of her being there, at least. "Excessive amounts of blood and flesh." I think is what was in the report. Impossibly, a day or two later, I received a report that some organs had been found in a trash can nearby, and a DNA test confirmed they were Jess's. The case was closed then, and the death certificate was issued.

I am not convinced. They didn't see the contradicting horror of her condition, and she continued on despite it. They can't fathom my descriptions of her dexterous movements along with her mauled appearance.

They have so many reasons for why it can't happen; 'death by blood loss', 'would go into shock', 'all use and functions would cease without' this or that.

They are all too constrained and trapped within themselves to even think it possible.

It's been days since that last update, and I can't seem to get it out of my mind. There's something telling me that it just doesn't make sense. And it aches at me that no one believes me.

Even Garrem left to spend the night at a friend's house for a while because I "was scaring" him.

But it all just seems too easy. And if she could do it, why can't I?

Just to prove to them that it can be done. I mean, flesh is just a cage anyway. Holding us back.

Anyway. I've typed my fingers to the bone.

I can't help but think about that doctor and the hospital… I wonder if they take skin graft donations.