The Itch

I can feel it again.

I can feel the pervasive, crawling itch. The kind of itch everyone gets from time to time. The kind of itch that causes an instinctive scratch, with no conscious thought driving the motion. Pure reflex, a dig with the fingernails, and the itch is relieved. And looking at the spot after scratching shows nothing. Unblemished skin, and slowly developing red streaks where the nails have been dragged.

But I don’t scratch.

I don’t scratch.

I don’t scratch, because last week, I looked at an itch just before scratching.

I looked, and I saw … something. Something small. Something black. Something with legs and hairs and pincers and mandibles.

And I couldn’t stop the reflex.

I couldn’t stop my hand reaching for my leg.

I couldn’t stop my nails digging in.

And I couldn’t stop that … thing … from climbing in through my damaged skin. From disappearing into my flesh.

I can feel the itch again.

I can feel it.

And this time, it’s different.

This time, the itch is coming from the inside.