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[J] This is a flash fiction story my tulpa brother wrote a few months ago, after having pretty much the entire plot come to him in one moment while we were talking within an extended metaphor about the "skin, flesh, and bone" of personhood (a topic that is often discussed in relation to tulpamancy.) If you find it creepy that's alright, and if you find it funny that's alright too- personally I think it's both. 


I'm going to publish it in three parts/posts over 3 days probably but when all three parts are out I will put all three together here in the OP, or something or another to make it easy to read in one go. So feel free to post between the three parts, don't worry. And if you have questions or anything to discuss it is very much welcomed ;0


It is also probably a 16+ story, although not really NSFW- if you can handle zombie nitty gritty you can handle this.


Part 1


The Skin Man


Once there was a lonely woman who wanted a companion more than anything. She was a shy, unattractive woman who thought lowly of herself. She never had many friends and certainly not many boyfriends. In fact, she had hardly ever gotten farther than a kiss and it had been too many years since even that. She felt like no one ever so much at as looked at her.


The woman worked in a hospital. She moved containers of medical refuse to the incinerator room. Out of morbid curiosity and boredom, she started to look inside of the containers, even though it wasn’t allowed. Sometimes she couldn’t tell what she was looking at. Other times she recognized a chunk of bone, pieces of fat and muscle, or even a fingertip or little toe that had been amputated.


She never really knew the stories of where the body parts came from, but sometimes she imagined. She imagined heroic firefighters wounded in duty, freak industrial accidents chopping off fingers and toes, and injuries sustained in epic hand-to-hand combat. She imagined the body parts came from people better than her, and grew to like looking at them.


How terrible!” The lonely woman thought. “The closest I can get to knowing someone is when I move their little left-over pieces around.


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