THE ITCH

Day 1

A small annoyance. A tickle on my wrist. I scratch, it stops. It comes back. I ignore it.

Day 2

Again. I feel it on my fingers, my hand, my arm. There’s no mark on my skin, yet I feel it. I think it will pass if I wait a few days.

Day 3

Tonight, I woke up scratching until I hurt my skin, but the itch is still there. I touch my skin, searching for an answer, but there’s nothing.

Day 4

I talked to some of my friends about the itch. They laughed at first, said I was overreacting, that it’s just stress, dry skin, maybe an allergy.

One of them told me to stop “thinking about it so much,” as if it were that easy.

I tried to explain what it feels like, how it moves, how it’s not on my skin but under it, but they looked at me the way you look at someone who’s exaggerating. Smiling, polite, but distant.

They said it would pass soon, that everything would be fine. That a feeling like this couldn’t possibly exist. I nodded. Pretended to agree. But the whole time, I was thinking, then why am I the only one who feels it?

Day 5

I tried to call my doctor, but my hands were trembling too much. I kept dialing the wrong number. When I finally got it right, I couldn’t speak. The words stuck in my throat like dust. He prescribed several medications and he told me I should stop scratching myself.

I tried meditating, breathing deeply, focusing on something calm. It worked for ten seconds, then the itch came back, sharper, deeper, as if mocking me. I think it likes when I try to resist.

Day 6

I don’t know how much I’ve slept. My eyes are tired, my patience a stretched wire. I reply to messages with one-word answers. It irritates me that people can live normal lives.

Dinner, laughter, touch, and feel nothing. I stare at myself in the mirror for hours, looking for something, an explanation. Nothing. Yet I feel it. It’s there. It’s inside.

Day 7

I can’t stop scratching my skin. I scratched until it bled, and it’s not enough. It is starting to hurt. I feel pain when I scratch my skin.

I skip meals. There isn’t enough time to eat and scratch at once, I feel hungry but I ignore it.

I need to find a pastime, a distraction to keep me busy.

I clean the room twice, make it sterile, as if removing dust could steal time. It doesn’t work.

Day 8

Today I went out to buy medicine. I kept scratching the whole time. People stared at me, whispering, judging, like I was strange or diseased. They kept their distance, eyes full of horror and disgust.

I felt exposed, fragile, something less than human. Every look cut through me.

I came back home and locked the door. I don’t want to go out again. I just want to be alone, where no one can see what I’ve become.

Day 9

The medications didn’t work. I don’t know what to do. I don’t sleep anymore. I’m afraid to sleep, afraid to wake up with my skin destroyed. Afraid of the itch.

My body is changing. It calls me. A sound in my head. A whisper. A beckoning. If I stop scratching, it gets worse.

I think going to the hospital is the best choice. Maybe they’ll know the cause. Maybe someone will believe me.

Day 10

I went to the hospital, but they couldn’t help me. I spent hours waiting, tormented by pain and anger. When the doctors finally saw me, they couldn’t find the cause of my itching. Everything seemed normal.

They examined my red, scratched skin and gave me a few treatments to help it heal. I insisted, told them many times that I could feel something, but they wouldn’t listen.

They didn’t pay attention, as if I were some lunatic wasting their time. I heard them whispering. I didn’t catch every word, but I know they were talking about me. They thought I was lying. As I leave, I hear the door close behind me. From the other room, a POS beep, then low laughter.

They think they’re special because they save lives but they are not.