Bliss

four

The sun beats down through the sparse clouds. It creeps up the beach, tickling my legs and caressing my thighs. On any other occasion, I'd bathe in its glory with my head tipped back and my lips curved up into a smile as I soak in the heat, but this isn't any other occasion. Oh no, today is perhaps the worst kind of day because today is the day that the itch has decided to test me.

How?

Well, it all started when I joined Dad out by the pool. He was draped over a hot pink inflatable with a slice of toast shoved into his mouth. It was ridiculous, and if I were in the drawing mood, I would've caught a quick sketch before he fell off the edge and heaved himself out of the heavily chlorinated water. But I wasn't, so I collapsed beside the plate of toast sitting on the patio edge and grabbed a slice of my own. My feet splashed against the otherwise still surface, creating inconsequential ripples until Dad asked about my summer plans.

I don't have any, not really, and even if I did, I'd have to tell him eventually, but something about the question made me squirm. No, not squirm, jitter.

At first, I didn't get why I couldn't hone in on his voice or why his sentences jumbled in my brain. But then it clicked.

The feeling started in my fingertips—it always does—and travelled upwards until my whole body was alight. I noticed what was going on when Dad floated over and clamped a hand on my knee. "Are you alright?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed.

"Of course," I said.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah...I just want to go to the beach."

"No one's stopping you," he said, backing away.

"Okay. If anyone asks—"

"You're at the beach." He winked and waved me off as I ran into the house.

After months of nothing and the false alarm yesterday, I didn't expect anything so soon. But the moment I collapsed in front of my suitcase, the itch's presence was all but confirmed.

An old sketchbook was hidden at the bottom of the suitcase, beneath patterned bikinis and denim shorts. I'd thrown it in as a joke, a rubbish one, but a joke nonetheless. Not that it mattered so much, it paid off. Next to the sketchbook was a dented tin of pencils that found their way into my backpack too. They clanged against my plastic water bottle and rattled as I zipped the bag and threw it over my shoulder.

I never thought about losing the sensation. I was too excited for rational thought. But by the time I reached the beach, the spark fizzled out, and I was me again—that is, the new, itchless me.

I can thank my stubbornness for still being here. If I were the type of person who let things go, I'd be back at the pool, wasting away in the icy blue depths. But instead, I'm here with an open sketchbook and an abundance of annoyingly empty pages.

I want to close the book and throw it into the sea where it belongs. Or, better yet, I could dig a hole and bury it. At least if it's under the sand, the eggshell pages grazing against the water table, I'll never have to think about it again. And by it, I mean the itch because if all it does is taunt me, I don't want it. And trust me, when I say this, I mean it.

I've always seen my artistic abilities as a gift. Honestly, my whole life, I've believed they're something special. Something to be cherished, even. And, to a certain extent, hidden way down deep, I still do.

But losing the itch, being teased by it, isn't a gift. It's torture, hell on earth, pure evil. I wouldn't wish it on anyone. Well, maybe Isaac, but otherwise, no one else should have to endure this pain.