Bitesized Creepy pastas

Part 5 - The Itch

I'm going insane. This infernal itching won't stop. It absorbs my every waking moment.

It started after I scraped my arm on, of all things, the door latch to the bathroom. Stumbling blurry eyed and oblivious down the corridor my hand eye coordination leaving much to be desired, I lurched towards where I anticipated that the doorway to the bathroom was, and promptly scraped my arm across the exposed latch. Now ever since then the darn thing hasn't stopped itching.

It's not a slight itch or one that comes and goes. It is constant, like the latch started the habit and my body realized this was something it had needed all along and wouldn't let it go now it had had a taste. My hand immediately reached for the site and started its efforts to relieve the discomfort, the sharp irregular edges of my nails running hungrily over my rapidly reddening skin. But no matter how hard I try to relieve the sensation, however deep my nails bite into the soft plump flesh of the limb, no respite is achieved. It just keeps on itching.

Now, I'm the kind of person that cannot stand little irritations, the catching of a hang nail, scabs that take too long to fall off. Often, I was told-off as a child for chewing my nails or pulling off scabs before wounds were fully healed. So, the moment my skin started flaking around the graze on my arm, now red and irritated from my scratching, it was only a matter of time before I started picking at it.

It took about 10 minutes for me to cave and start gently teasing the white brittle gossamer skin poking out at absurd angles from my arm, with the nail of my index finger. It started almost absently, as though the moment I thought I had won my battle, I let my guard down and thus the unconscious pick, pick, picking began. Initially there was no concern, little skin flakes fell from my arm, like the tentative fresh snowflakes of the start of a snowstorm.

As I picked absently, sometimes brushing my leg of the tiny blizzard, I gradually became aware of the increasing size of the bits. I realized my fingers spent more and more time worrying at the flakes, tugging them away from my arm in longer and longer strips. This was especially satisfying when I realized the longer the strip peeled off the more likely the itching would subside briefly. The relief was intense, intoxicating, and I began more determined than ever to peel these slivers of dry skin away from the angry site of my affliction.

After some time, I began to realize the pieces I pulled away were not as translucent as I would expect. Instead, the skin coming away was thicker and juicier, not at all the dry dead skin I was expecting.

After a while I looked at my arm as I was finishing a particularly stubborn piece and was enjoying the ecstasy of respite from the relentless itching I was experiencing. Or what I thought was my arm. Instead of the usual beige pink, smooth taut skin covered in downy hair I was expecting, I saw thick lumpy deep crimson strands wet and glistening where my arm flesh used to be. I looked on in horror as I realized my fingers were pulling away my own skin exposing the muscle underneath.

The itching began again, and my fingers immediately reached for the wound. Scratch, scratch, catch, pull, tear, relief. And again. Slowly I became aware that the itching was spreading, crawling its way up my arm, around my wrist and creeping over to my forearm.

Scratch, scratch, catch, pull, tear, relief.

It continued, and I was a slave to my own need for reprieve, even as the anxiety and revulsion welled up in my throat tasting of bile and heat, I continued. Peeling away the offending chunks, stripping away the ribbons of flesh like opening an orange.

I do not know if I can stop, despite the need to save myself, despite the revulsion I have as I'm stripping away the rags of flesh from my arm, slowly the itch creeping up my neck.

Scratch, scratch, catch, pull, tear, relief.

Written by: Dracthonia
Edited by: Joceyposer

Narrated version