He was a hero but that’s all gone now. It was my sister’s fault. She returned from L.A. to meet him a week before our wedding and whispered in my ear, “He’s perfect,” her wine breath touching my face. I already knew he was wonderful but I never said it the way she did. It was that label that marked him for the bullet.
The U.S. army has Kevlar and night scopes and unmanned drones but the enemy has something better; they have a bullet that is kissed by cracked lips before it is slipped into a rifle chamber and fired. American science can’t match the way it seeks out our best. It might have something to do with hate, the way it finds the man who just married, the strong one, the handsome one, the one who was called to Afghanistan a week after he held his newborn child. It found my husband.
When his squad was pinned down in Afghanistan, it was him who held off the enemy, firing again and again until the last of his men withdrew. As he picked up to get out, a bullet struck him in the leg, shattering his femur beyond repair. The doctors cut it off above the knee. I thought losing the leg would destroy him but he was stronger than that.
The stories of PTSD and depression worried me but he talked about prosthetic limbs and how amazing they were. He told me he would earn an engineering degree and support the family. He held the baby again. If only I had seen through the veneer.
Life was everything he said it would be for a while. He might have even made it work if it hadn’t been for the itch. The phantom itch. Sometimes missing limbs have feeling even though they are gone, a tingle in a severed nerve ending that sends lies to the brain. It lied to John constantly. He would remove his fake leg and scratch his stump furiously, cursing because it’s impossible to satisfy an itch on a limb that isn’t there. The doctor had explained it all.
John wore his prosthetic limb less and less saying it irritated his stump, made the itch worse. He had difficulty concentrating on his course work. The constant annoyance drove him to emotional extremes. He would groan and shout and slam around the house. During those moments I tried to stay out of his way. Eventually he quit wearing the leg altogether. It was as though I was living with a different man.
Sometimes he used his crutches but most of the time he sat in his wheel chair and watched television, claiming it took his mind off the itch. He quit going to classes. I began to wonder if it was possible to become addicted to sympathy. He seemed to crave the attention his missing leg earned him. I know he enjoyed bragging to strangers about his medal, his purple heart, the times we went to the grocery store or when he rolled to the convenience store down the block for beer. It was new behavior.
The drinking became serious. I walked into the kitchen one day and he was sitting in the wheelchair, razor stubble on his face, a bottle in his hand. He hadn’t bothered to button his shirt. He was staring at the dishwasher.
“John, are you alright?”
He swallowed from the bottle and looked down at the shiny surface of the dishwasher door. “Doctor says some people fix it by scratching their leg in a reflection.” He waved the bottle toward the washer. “See that? Left is right and right is left.” I could see it. From his viewpoint, the reflection had swapped his legs. He had his missing leg back.
“Good reflection,” he said. “My brain can get behind that.” He leaned forward and his fingers scrabbled against the slippery surface. “Except I get no god damned relief.” The last half was screamed in hysteria.
“I don’t feel anything, only the fucking itch – and – it – never - leaves. I can’t even fucking drink it away,” he shouted. “But I’ll bet – “ He backed up and rolled forward pounding his stump into the washer. The surface bowed and sprang back until he pounded it again, cursing at the top of his lungs. The bottle dropped to the floor and began to spill beer. I rushed to pick it up but he snatched it away with an evil look.
The baby awoke, crying, so I hurried into the family room, glad for an excuse to get away. I held her in my arms, rocking and cooing. The crying was loud but it couldn’t drown out the sound of John’s cursing and thumping as he continued to bash his wounded leg into the washer. There were quiet moments when I hoped he was getting a grip but I knew he was only gulping from the bottle. Occasionally I heard him roll across the kitchen, muttering but I didn’t dare look. There were still sudden bursts of swearing when he was probably scratching uselessly. Why couldn’t the doctors help him? I was losing my husband.
I heard the latch on the door to the garage and the sound of him rolling out. I hate to admit it but I was relieved when the door slammed behind him. I wished he would be gone for good. The hope of a cure seemed like fantasy. The roots of that seed were beginning to spread when there was a loud bang from the garage and a horrible scream. An arrow of guilt shot through me. Terrified, I ran to the door. It was blocked. I could hear John moaning but I couldn’t see him. The door opened only inches before hitting his wheelchair. He was heavy and the chair must have been sideways against it. I shoved with all my strength until there was enough space to squeeze through. The first thing I saw was blood everywhere. I expected to find a gun and blood pumping from a hole in my husband’s body but it wasn’t that simple. It was worse. There was a severed hand on the floor, John’s of course. In his remaining hand he held a hatchet and his face had a look near ecstasy.
“I got it, hon,” he said, moaning.
It was then that I understood the depth of his insanity. I watched as he scratched his phantom leg with the only thing he could, his phantom hand.
“Oh, I finally got it.”
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Thanks for reading Bone Itch. I hope you didn't find it too disturbing. If you enjoyed it, you might try reading my book, Earth Unraveled, right here on Wattpad. It's more uplifting than Bone Itch. I promise.
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