Impermeable Skin

K. acquired the jacket on an ordinary rainy day. Neither bought nor gifted, it simply appeared in the hallway of his cramped apartment, hanging on the sole coat hook, as if it had always been there. The jacket was dark gray, a kind of lifeless gray that absorbed light. The label bore some indistinct symbols and a line of small text: "Highly waterproof, isolates everything." K. didn't think much of it at the time; the city was rainy, and a functional jacket was always useful. He even felt a secret delight, as if it were some anonymous favor.

The first time he put it on, it felt unusually snug. The fabric clung to his skin, yet felt weightless, possessing only a peculiar, smooth coolness. Raindrops landed on it, instantly beaded up, and rolled off without a trace, leaving no dampness. K. walked in the rain, surrounded by a damp clamor, yet he felt as if enclosed in a dry, quiet bubble. At first, this sensation was comfortable, even superior.

However, trouble soon followed. Not major problems, just subtle, hard-to-describe changes. He found it increasingly difficult to perceive temperature changes. Whether it was the scorching summer heat or the biting winter wind, once he wore the jacket, they became distant, irrelevant background information. When colleagues complained about the office air conditioning being too cold or too hot, K. just sat there blankly, his body seemed wrapped in an invisible film, maintained at a constant, neither-hot-nor-cold intermediate state.

Next came touch. He grasped a doorknob and felt as if wearing thick gloves; he accidentally bumped into a desk corner, the expected pain didn't arrive, only a dull vibration from afar. Once, the secretary accidentally touched his hand while handing him a file. She gasped and pulled back, saying his hand was like ice and "slippery, hard to grip." K. looked down at his hand. It looked normal, but the skin's surface seemed to have an oily sheen, like the jacket's fabric.

What disturbed him most was that he had begun to become "waterproof." Not physically, but on a more subtle level. Others' emotions—anger, sadness, or joy—seemed unable to truly reach him. Like raindrops, they landed on the outer shell of his perception, slid off quickly, leaving no mark. He could still understand the meaning of these emotions, like reading an instruction manual, but he couldn't "feel" them. The heated arguments in the conference room, the soft sobbing from the next cubicle, even the manager's rare praise—all felt like a silent movie watched through thick glass. He became the perfect observer: calm, objective, yet utterly isolated.

He tried to take off the jacket. But the zipper seemed welded shut, unmoving. He tugged hard at the collar, but the fabric clung to his skin like a living thing, each pull bringing a strange, viscous sensation, as if tearing his own skin. Panic set in. He ran to the bathroom, looked in the mirror. The person in the mirror was pale, eyes vacant. The dark gray jacket perfectly enveloped his torso and arms, its edges merging with the skin of his neck and wrists, the boundary almost invisible. It was no longer a piece of clothing, but more like a newly grown exoskeleton, an impermeable skin.

K. decided to seek help. He went to a clinic. The doctor examined him meticulously, listening to his heartbeat through the jacket with a stethoscope, tapping his knee with a small hammer (also through the fabric). "Everything's normal," the doctor finally said, his tone flat. "Perhaps you just need more rest, or a change in lifestyle. Modern life is stressful." K. wanted to argue, to point at the "jacket" on his body, to tell him it wasn't stress, but some terrifying transformation. But the words turned into indistinct mumbling as they reached his lips. He felt as if his voice too had become waterproofed, unable to penetrate the membrane, unable to convey his inner terror.

He went to a clothing store, hoping someone could cut the jacket off. The shop assistant was initially enthusiastic, but upon seeing the jacket nearly fused with K.'s skin, her expression turned puzzled and slightly repulsed. "Sir, we only handle sales and repairs here," she said, stepping back cautiously. "Your situation... perhaps you should go to a specialized institution?" Which institution? She didn't know, nor did she seem to care.

K. began shuttling between various departments. He went to the Consumer Association (they asked for receipts and manufacturer info); the Health Department (they considered it a product quality issue); the police station (the police suspected it was some kind of performance art). Every counter, every form filled, every wait deepened his sense of "isolation." His problem, his predicament, like rain on the jacket, was easily deflected by the vast, intricate social system. No one could understand, or rather, no one was willing to understand what this "impermeable skin" signified.

Days passed. K. continued going to work every day, processing documents, attending meetings. He grew increasingly silent, increasingly efficient. Freed from the distractions of pointless emotional fluctuations and the minutiae of interpersonal relationships, his work performance even improved. The manager praised him at a general meeting, calling K. "a model modern employee—focused, calm, undisturbed." K. sat there, listening to the praise, feeling nothing inside. He looked down at his smooth wrist; there, the boundary between the jacket cuff and his skin had completely vanished.

He no longer tried to remove it, nor did he seek help anymore. He began to accept this new skin. On rainy days, he would walk alone in the streets for a long time. Watching the rain beat futilely against his shell, watching pedestrians hurry, laugh, and argue in the wet world, he would feel a strange sense of calm. He was isolated, yes, but also protected. Protected from the damp, the cold, the overwhelming yet fleeting torrents of emotion.

Only, when alone late at night, touching his smooth, cold, unresponsive "skin," a faint, almost unrecognizable trace of panic would occasionally surface from deep within. He would vaguely recall, from long, long ago, the cool, real sting of rain on actual skin. But he quickly banished the thought. After all, isolating everything also meant absolute safety. Didn't it?

The last time he looked in the mirror, he noticed the reflection of the person inside had become somewhat blurred, as if seen through frosted glass. Only the dark gray jacket—or rather, the dark gray skin—remained sharp, smooth, perfectly "waterproof." It faithfully fulfilled its duty, isolating everything, including K. himself.