Viscera and Other Tales

The Itch

My favorite pastime was naps in the garden. There's nothing I loved more than laying out a nice, soft blanket over the grass, clearing my mind and sleeping my problems away.

Occasionally I'd end up with ant bites or maybe some bird shit on my head but for the most part it was a relaxing and peaceful experience that connected me to nature.

It was relaxing. Until it wasn't.

One day, after a particularly long rest, I awoke with a red mark on my right arm. It wasn't bumpy or infected looking, just red and circular like a port-wine stain. When I touched it burned lightly but it didn't hurt me. I figured it was a rash maybe from the grass or maybe just a type of bug bite I didn't recognize. I thought nothing of it.

I showed it to my friend, Ashley, but she didn't think much of it.

"Think it's just like a rash?" I asked.

"Probably." She answered, uninterested. "Maybe you like rolled over onto the grass or something. Anyways like I was saying I can't wait for us to go..."

She continued to speak but I didn't listen. I couldn't stop staring at the spot. It was like I was locked into it, transfixed. It began to burn more.

At night, I tried to sleep but I could feel the spot. It still wasn't painful yet but the burn was uncomfortable. I had to convince myself not to touch it as I was afraid of it spreading more. Any cream I put on it didn't seem to help. The burn remained.

When I finally did fall asleep I dreamt that I was stuck in a hole. The walls of dirt began to close in on me and as I reached toward the top my hand was illuminated by sunlight. It was covered in the red spots. I screamed as my nails fell off and my arm became enveloped in redness. I burned all over.

I awoke with a jolt and checked myself. The spot was still there but thankfully it hadn't spread more. The sensation felt different now. Less of a burn and more of...an itch? It didn't feel too intense, less than a mosquito bite but definitely at least a bit itchy.

'Don't scratch it.' I thought to myself. 'That'll make it worse.'

The next day at work I sat at my desk typing out the daily financials when the spot began to itch more. It was slowly becoming more intense both in color and feel.

'Don't. Scratch.' I thought.

I tried to focus on my work but the itch was distracting me. It begged me to be scratched. I couldn't keep it out of my mind.

I typed and typed but the itch remained there, teasing me. It had become worse than a mosquito bite. It was tempting me and it took everything in my power not to run my nails across it.

At the end of the workday, back at home, I felt like I was going crazy. I had thought it possible to distract myself but it wasn't. The itch persisted, worse and worse.

I uncovered my arm and turned to it in the mirror. The spot was now a darker shade of red, almost purple. A single bumped had formed right in the middle of it almost like a nipple.

"Fuck it." I said and I began to scratch.

It felt so good. I scratched and scratched until it bled, my fingernails becoming bloody. But I couldn't stop. The itch persisted, rising again after every scratch. The feeling was freeing, almost orgasmic, but also addictive.

I forced my hand to stop scratching as I looked back in the mirror. The spot remained but the bump had been torn from the scratches. It almost felt like it itched more now.

I bandaged up my arm and tried to sleep, but the itch continued to tempt me. I struggled not to, but ultimately I gave in.

I ripped the bandages off and dug my fingers into the partially scabbed wound. I scratched and scratched getting deeper and deeper. I felt my eyes cross in ecstasy and the wound deepened.

I felt like a man possessed as the scratching continued. Eventually, as my eyes crossed and my breath shortened, I blacked out.

In my forced slumber I saw another dream. This time I was scratching the spot and as I dug into it I began to pull out a long red thread. I pulled and pulled but the thread kept coming until I became fully undone and my skin fell off. That was when I woke up.

I was on the floor, splayed out from falling off my bed. Blood pooled out of my arm. It still itched. I pushed myself up off the ground and stumbled my way to the restroom. In the mirror I saw it.

A spot on my face.

"No." I muttered, terrified. "No, not another one."

I looked to the one on my arm. What was once a vibrant red spot was now a dark, deep, bloody hole that reached to the bone.

And now it had begun again.

My cheek ached from the spot. I touched it and felt it burn, much like how the arm spot had at first. I couldn't sit around and longer. I had to go to the hospital. Running to the room, I picked up my keys but then I suddenly stopped dead in my tracks.

I was staring at the hole in my arm. It transfixed me once again, itching, taunting me.

Staring and staring, I couldn't look away. It was begging to be scratched. When I was able to look away from it my attention was drawn to my hand.

And my keys.

I plunged my key into the hole and scratched. It scraped up against bone and the pleasure returned to my senses. The I felt my cheek beginning to itch so I began to scratch there too, the key cutting deeply and chunkily into my flesh.

"More. I need more." I said, scratching deeper and deeper until my key was in my face. I couldn't feel pain anymore. Only itches.

I blacked out again.

This time I didn't dream. There was only darkness.

I awoke to a scream. It wasn't my own, however, it was Ashley's.

"WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO YOU?" She yelled, kneeling beside me. In her hand was the spare key to my apartment. She pulled out her phone. "Were you attacked?! I got worried when you didn't show up for brunch so I-"

"S-scr-ratch m-me." I muttered.

She paused from dialing 911. "Wait what?"

"Sc-uh-ratch m-me." I said. Then I blacked out again.

When I was up (again) I was in the hospital. Ashley was asleep in the room. My arm and face were bandaged up and I didn't feel an itch anymore.

The doctors never gave me a clear explanation for what they think happened to me. They didn't find any evidence of rashes or any sort of allergic reaction. The most common theory was that I suffered a massive mental breakdown.

Until Ashley spoke up. She confirmed that she had seen a red spot on my arm.

Puzzled, an investigation was launched into my backyard to search for anything that might've caused the spot. They dug, searching for a type of insect that could've led to this but didn't find anything of note. I tested negative for any bug bite allergy that would've made sense. Everyone was baffled.

Then, one of the investigators found something. It was a small figurine, almost tribal in appearance, bound by red thread. It was carved and looked very old. Nobody knew what it was and they asked if I wanted to keep it. I declined and it was tossed away.

It gave me bad energy. The thread reminded me of the one from my dream. Could they be related?

I wasn't the superstitious type, and neither were my doctors, so the investigation reached a dead end.

Ultimately, no insects were found to be the cause of my spot. No animals either. I tested negative for a grass allergy.

Ashley checked up on me often, making sure I was okay and not harming myself. The itching never returned.

I am still scarred on my face and arm from the incident but I've recovered mentally and feel better than ever. Freer even.

One day, while reading the paper, I saw a story of a man a town over who had been found dead, a suicide. His wife said he had been complaining of an itch before he dug into his neck and scratched his throat out.

Isn't that peculiar?