I laid in my bed. Slowly moving in and out of consciousness. My clothed body sat atop my fully made duvet. Not able to change before the alcohol brought my night out to a cold, restful end. My friends forced me through a two hour pub crawl; the honeycomb tavern, the blue philosopher, the badger port pub, the Spanish widow and the Fly’s nest. Pints and pints of cheap beer and tiny shots of rum ruffled my brain. My friends dropped me home, driving partially normally when passing police cars stationed in laybys to find different versions of us who were less careful.
There was a tickling sensation on my face; small but noticeable. My unchecked hand slapped my face to cease the pests constant taps of his legs. It continued. I slapped again. This one was a bit harder, bringing me back to my room. I bring my body to a sitting position. The tapping remained. I itch the tingling intensely. Why wasn’t it going away? Then it stopped. I breathed a sigh of relief, rubbing my face. It started on my arm. Annoyance pierced what was left of my continuous mind.
I looked at my arm and in the soft moonlight glow I saw nothing. My pale, freckled skin lay bare. The tingling continued. I’m drunk, I thought, it’s just the result of too much alcohol or someone tried to drug me. A scary thought but a reasonable one. My town isn’t the best at keeping hold of crime. Muggings, murders, arson and drug deals were common. In this town if you see a crime, unless it’s murder, rape or arson, you don’t see it. You go along your merry way so an attempted drugging wasn’t too outlandish. I’m just feeling the peak of some high. Just have some sleep and it will all be better in the morning, apart from the hangover. I rolled over and fell into an unawaken slumber.
I woke many hours later to a raging headache. The hangover has kicked in at full swing. I rolled over, cursing into my pillow. Forgetting last night’s imaginary bug problem, I walked to my bathroom. I felt my throat begin to jerk. I leant over my toilet and unloaded all of yesterday afternoon’s food. I picked myself up and lumbered to the kitchen. A glass of water and a few raw eggs would do the trick. This wasn’t my first rodeo. Drinking the cool water and the slimy eggs was a challenge. I didn’t want to repeat the last five minutes. I took a deep breath and collapsed onto my sofa. I’d take it easy for today and anyway the cold leather was soothing.
The next twenty four hours were uneventful. After my killer headache decided to relent, I threw on my jacket and decided to walk into town. Maybe grab some coffee and a bite to eat. That sounded nice. I grabbed a croissant and a black coffee from the local costa. It’s quiet and has coffee. I sat on a stool looking out the window onto the high street. Just down the road was the blue philosopher and it didn’t give me joy to see the sign of an old man with a white beard dressed in blue holding his head up with his fist. I scoffed at the heavy drinking. What an idiot I am. I finished my coffee and my baked treat and left the coffee shop to head home. It needed a good clean real bad.
It started again. The tingling began again but now at the back of my neck. Recalling last night’s accounts, I remember my made-up fly problem. I swore it was just from the drinking but I then remembered that my mind had told me that. My lips puckered slightly in confusion. Maybe it was the drinks and this is just the tag from your shirt. Yes, that was reasonable. So I went on my way, the tingle remaining with me. But by the time I got home, the sensation had left me. I started vacuuming. My apartment was small so this took barely fifteen minutes. The washing of dishes was longer but it was done soon enough. I sat once again on my sofa. I looked at my phone, 13:07. Still half the day was up for grabs and I had no plans. So as I always did when there were no plans, I played video games.
About half way through my second game of halo, the little fly feet danced on my skin once again. This time it was worse. It had multiplied. Not only was there one on my arm but on my calf and cheek too. I scratched and itched each spot so they wouldn’t go away. Soon I slammed my controller onto my sofa and was giving my full attention to these invisible pests.
This time it continued. Unbearably amounts of itching reddened my skin. After a while, I forced my hands away. Out loud I told myself if this doesn’t stop or gets worse by tomorrow, I would go to the doctor. This put me a little at ease. Trying to ignore the constant tapping was unbearable. That night my sister called me and I told her of the night out and the subsequent itch.
“Don’t worry I’ll be down in a few days. Go to the GPs tomorrow and see a doctor. They’ll find what’s wrong.”
“Thanks Jennifer. See you later. Bye”
“Bye”
The disconnection tone disheartened me. Jennifer always had my back. Even when we were children and she was ill, she’d get me to do something fun or make something for me to do. Every bully she would stand up to or test she helped me with made me look up to her even more each time.
The next morning I awoke to six spots of pestering little taps and steps. There was one on my lower back and one on my forehead. I went to the doctor. Nothing. I had no fever, no rash, no signs of lingering effects of alcohol or drugs. I was by all medical accounts normal but he said it may be psychological.
“Here, I’ll book you in for a psychiatric check up on Thursday. Come here again and Doctor Simons will see you. I can’t find anything here but he might. Maybe stop scratching so much. You’re going to start bleeding at this rate.”
“O-o-ok doctor I’ll try my best. Thanks for seeing me. B-bye.”
A few hours later I was still itching and more patches had appeared. Everywhere on my body it itched tortuously. Now it was even worse though, they weren’t tapping on my skin. They were tapping UNDER my skin! Blood ran down my arms, chest and face as each scratch dug deeper into my skin. It’s everywhere. I can’t breathe. By sun down, I looked like a moving pile of blood and pain. Long , deep gashes cluttered my skin. Then, I cried. First time in a long time tears of sadness had run down my face. The pain, self inflicted or not, shaped my long, waking hours.
My door handle jittered. My sister was here but I couldn’t greet her. Cries of distress grew as the longer she waited. Then the door caved. Jenifer stood there with my brother in law breathing from the effort of entering into my apartment. She screamed a high, tear glazed, muffled scream. Her eyes bulged.
“GET THEM OUT OF ME! GET THEM OUT!”
Her husband ran to my side. She was frozen. A heap of pain and blood resembling the shape of me was soon was dragged out by paramedics, ranting and raving about the bugs under my skin. My sister melted into her husband’s arms. Unable to stand the sight of the mess of which was her brother being loaded into an ambulance.
I now reside in an elevated bed. Once looking like the gritty, monstrous zombie, now a wrapped mummy. Jenifer has stopped visiting. I hear her weep in the hallway each and every time she sees me. The asylums are nice. The staff treat me well. Pamper me as much as the bandages allow but I’m in a constant battle. The battle to not reach over and give my arm the tiniest itch.