The Itch

There's an itch that begisn somewhere under my ankle, and then travels up my body, creeping slowly up my leg, and lodges itself under my nails. I can not scratch my nails, my nails are meant to scratch, and not be scratched. It is horrible, I tug and pull at my fingernails, but nothing happens. It is like heaven when the itch finally moves to the palm of my hand, and then I rub my palm over the rough underside of my wooden chair. The wood begins to peel, splinters embed in the palm of my hand, the transparent, plastic flesh of my palm. The itch moves again, to the back of my neck, and even as I scratch, it moves up again. I scratch my hair, and feel wetness as I draw blood. The itch descends again, across my forehead, down my brow, and finally sinks into the back of my eyes. I rub my eyes feverishly, the itch is driving me to madness, and I am half-tempted to stick my nails into my eyes, to scratch the underside of my eyeball. But my mother comes in then, she screams when she notices the scratches, the bleeding rents across my hands, across my face. She runs over, and binds my hands, to the arms of my chair, tying one hand tightly with thick cord. I let her do this, I know she is wise, I know she means well. She takes my other hand, picks out the splinters with tweezers, and rubs alcohol over my hand. It stings when she does that, but I like it. I keep the taste, the feel of that sensation in my mind, repeating it over and over again, until it finally fades, until it has no effect any longer. She ties the hand to the other side of the chair.

She's calling some one on the phone. Probably the psychologist. I hear her cry, I see her tug at her hair. She is worried. I understand, I know. But I can't help it. The itch starts again, around my eyes. It is horrible. I try to will it to move. Perhaps to the inside of my thighs, I can rub them together. Or the underside of my feet, which I can rub against the corner of the chair's leg.

It finally moves to my back, and it is beautiful, it is magnificent, it is glorious, because I can rub my spine against the back of the chair. It is like a thousand angles singing, all at once, or like a sunset over a blue sea. Beautiful, so beautiful, tasty.

My mother notices. She screams at me to stop. The blue seas and the sunsets fade. Soon, I hear the sound of an ambulance. The itch starts up again in my left shoulder. I want nothing more than a fork, to rake against my shoulder, feel the prongs pressing in, tight. The white-uniformed nurses come in and take me away. They take me outside to the ambulance.

In the ambulance I ask them to scratch my lower back. The nurses exchange a grim look, and shake their heads. They strap me to a stretcher when they notice me rubbing against the door. But the straps are slightly rough, and pleasure my wrists.

A nurse notices this and grimaces. She then brings out a syringe, with a long, thin needle. I look at the needle, it would be wonderful to press it against the inside of my arm, where the itch is now. So wonderful, so-so wonderful. The nurse comes over, rubs that same spot. I try to hide her smile, I don't want her to know that's exactly where the itch is. She presses the needle it, and it's oh-so-wonderful, so wonderful, beautiful, shining....

When I wake up there is a doctor next to me and I am in hospital. I can't feel anything, the doctor says he has given me an anasthetic, so that I won't itch. He says this like I should be grateful that the itch is gone. He doesn't know that it can be good, so good, to scratch, and how can one scratch without an itch? He doesn't understand. I explain, he nods, like I am little child, and writes something down. He leaves then, and the nurse comes over. She injects me again.

When I wake up it is night. The other patients in the ward are asleep. There is a man, in a room farther down, who seems to shriek every ten minutes. No one notices. He shrieks again, and finally the nurse in the ward, sighing, leaves.

She doesn't come back. The night grows old. The itch starts again, and keeps me awake. But I am strapped to the bed, I can not scratch. I rub against the bedsheets - but they are soft and don't help. The itch moves to the top of my head, and I am in agony, because I can not touch it. I struggle against the straps, and sometime, finally the straps loosen. I am free, and I scratch, scratch. I am on fire. There is blood, old scabs open. It is beautiful, it is glorious. I love it.

But, after some time the itch moves deeper within me, it crawls within my veins, into my bones. It is like an animal, gone into hiding. I must hunt for it and bring it out. It slithers along the insides of my skin. This is madness. I almost scream, but that will bring the nurse back. I bite my tongue so hard that blood fills my mouth. And then I notice a steel scapel, glinting in the darkness.

I shouldn't. I really shouldn't. But it will be nice. Lovely. It will be shining. I reach for the scapel. It is just out of distance, on a trolley near the nurses's chair. I scramble across the bed, and the floor. I get the scapel and return to my bed.

The itch runs along my leg, and I open my veins. It is glorious, wonderful. Salty. A line of shining redness runs along the side of my leg. The itch moves up, across my lower stomach, and I run the scapel along the path it takes. Beautiful. The pain is a blessing. This is real beauty, the mixture of pain and pleasure. It is like a dark velvet sky, sprinkled with stars. Like diamonds in darkness. Like sunshine warming your skin.

The itch moves to my chin, and I slash again. My chin opens, skin hangs down, blood pouring down my neck. The itch travels then, quickly, running from the scapel, into the inside of arm. I slash, and slash again. It retreats to my wrists. Should I? Do I dare? It is as if the itch is mocking me, daring me. The glimmer of promised sunsets and starbursts.

But I don't. I wait. The waiting will make it worth it. But the itch remains them, taunting me. It calls me. The blood doesn't stop, my bed is slick with warm blood. I feel light, like I'm floating. But the itch is still there, a thousand explosions, a storm of shooting stars.

I do it. I can't resist any longer. It's amazing. Like molten fire spreading through your veins, jellyfish crawling down your spine, a candle in the dark, sweetness on your tongue.

I feel faint now, almost dizzy. The blood doesn't stop flowing, it drips down my slit wrists, splatters on to the floor. A lovely sound. The nurse comes in then, she shines her torch across the row of beds, and screams when the light falls on me. I smile weakly, and try to raise my head. I want to tell her that it's okay. That the beauty is amazing, that it feels so good. She screams and presses a button. The light comes on, a siren goes off. The other patients awaken, and stare at me. One woman starts to shriek, but a few, I notice, smile. There is sadness, something wistful in their eyes - almost hungry. They understand.

The doctor comes in. There is savage fury in his eyes, behind his black spectacles. He doesn't understand. He never will.

I hope my mother won't be too sad.