When I reach down to scratch an almost unbearable itch on my leg just above my knee, I notice an amorphous cluster of what looks like mosquito bites pimpling my skin.
They are in an erratic pattern, no set rhythm to them. There’s a pair next to each other, and maybe one a few inches away surrounded by several others. I count at least seven bumps rearing their ugly, itchy heads on my red skin, irritated by the infestation of mosquitoes looking for their next taste of blood.
I glare at my leg, willing myself not to scratch the bites because that will only make the itching worse. Really, the more I look at them, the more they begin to itch. And not just any itching. The kind of itching that takes up your mind and fills it with only the tingling of your skin and how uncomfortable the sensation is that you just can’t keep still.
I settle my hand on the itchy area and steel myself for the relief of my nails scratching over the bumps, leaving a red mark of disturbed skin in their wake. The relief is instant, but quickly followed with more intensive itching. I just keep scratching, dragging my nails over the bites and the bumps, begging, pleading for the itching to stop. I can feel my skin becoming numb with pain, like if I continue to dig my nails into my skin, the bites will break open and pour blood.
I have to force myself to stop, throwing my hand to my side, looking at the exposed, raw skin on my knee. It is so red and there are lines and lines of red marks where my nails have made their impression. I still itch, though, that’s my problem.
This has to have been the product of spending hours and hours outside yesterday. The product of not protecting myself by using bug spray. Mosquitoes love my delicate skin; they always have. It’s like ecstasy to them. My husband and I had been visiting his family, having a cookout with grilled hamburgers and hot dogs— the usual fare for an American family—and I hadn’t even noticed I was being eaten alive by those pests. My husband Logan’s family lives in a deep part of the country where no one can be seen for miles— just trees upon trees upon trees for what seems like forever. Maybe one or two people live out in those woods too, but not close enough for anyone to hear any traffic. Or worse, a scream.
Really, it creeps me out being that far out in the country. I’m a city girl at heart and prefer the hustle and bustle of others going in and out of work, heading to their homes at night after a long day at the office. I love hearing the smooth noise of traffic in the background. To me, it’s somewhat calming— almost like white noise. I can fall asleep at night in no time, although my husband thinks I’m crazy.
I digress.
Huffing, I think I can’t stand this itching anymore so I make my way to our en suite bathroom. A towel is crumpled up on the floor next to the bathtub, a product of Logan not discarding it into the hamper. He’s always notorious for leaving things lying around for me to just notice later and pick up after him. The truth is, I really shouldn’t. I should start leaving these things strategically in places he frequents most often, like his side of the bed. The sad thing is, Logan would just toss it on the floor there and I would have made a dumbass out of myself by causing more strife.
Really, it’s just easier to pick up after him the first time. I grab the towel and throw it into the hamper that is a mere few feet away from the tub, clenching my teeth. Oh to be a man with a doting wife. How glorious it must be.
Rolling my eyes I open the top drawer of my vanity and search through its contents, rummaging through tubes and tubes of different creams, none of them what I’m looking for.
“Where the fuck is it?” I say, getting agitated.
Eventually, I find it nestled in the back of the drawer, forgotten in the time it hasn’t been used. I grab it with such a fervor I think it’ll slip out of my hand, but my grip is so tight, it stays firmly in my grasp. I twist the white tube around, seeing anti-itch cream plastered across in big, bold letters. I twist off the cap, squeezing a healthy dollop onto my finger tips. Maybe I used too much, but the itching is so bad, it’s all I can think about. With a shaky hand, I rub the cream into my skin. It’s cold at first, but quickly morphs with the temperature of my skin, melting to match my color.
Unfortunately, there isn’t instant relief like I hoped there would be, but I can tell that the itching is trying to subside.
Thank God for generic brand ointments.
Instead of throwing the tube back into the drawer, I leave it laying on my vanity next to my hairbrush. I know I’ll need it again later because one use is not going to stop the incessant itching of these bites— they’ll fight until their very last breath.
Damn mosquitoes.
The more the cream sinks into the agitated area of my skin, the more relief washes over me. The intense itching has become more of a dull throb now. I’m definitely able to bear it without scratching. Tonight I’ll probably take Benadryl so I’m not woken up by the itching either. I can’t stand how crazy it makes me.
A shiver trails up my spine and I try to shake it off, making my way to the kitchen. Logan will be home soon from work, and I’m starving, so cooking sounds like a great way to take my mind off everything between the mosquito bites and cleaning up Logan’s messes.
Tonight’s menu includes an easy, stick-in-the-oven meal and go: a Stouffer’s lasagna and breadsticks. I’m not much of a cook, but I do what I can. Don’t get me wrong— Logan and I don’t eat like this every night. Some nights I’ll actually put in some effort and make something substantial, but tonight, since I’m already pissed that he can’t even bother to throw his towels in the hamper, I’ve decided I can’t even bother to spend extra time making dinner.
Marriage goes both ways— Logan just doesn’t see what I see.
I set the oven timer for an hour, leaving about fifteen minutes left on the time after Logan gets home. In the meantime, I decide to lay down on the couch and turn on Grey’s Anatomy for background noise. I usually pay more attention to my phone than I do the show— that’s why I call it background noise.
Eventually, I pull up Facebook and scroll through my feed, seeing Logan’s mom has posted some pictures of our gathering on her page. I see pictures of Logan and me playing with his childhood dog. There’s even some where I’m helping cut vegetables for a salad with his mom. We all look happy, smiles spread across each of our faces. There’s another where I’m bursting out laughing at a joke Logan’s dad probably took. It looks genuine, but I can tell I’m faking it by looking at the blankness in my eyes. Logan’s dad isn’t funny, even though he likes to think he is— that’s really how most dads are.
I like them— the pictures; they remind me just how easy it is to throw on a smile for a quick snapshot that takes up a millisecond of time to show just how happy your life is, when in reality you feel trapped in a body that must be someone else’s. You were supposed to be independent and move far away from your small town— not run back to it with open arms, married to your high school sweetheart of ten years.
I’m so lost in thought, I don’t notice I’m scratching the bites on my leg until it’s too late. I’ve drawn blood. In fact, one of the bites has burst open and is pouring blood and pus and some strange clear liquid. My fingers and nails are coated in a conglomeration of each.
I make a gagging noise in the back of my throat, thinking I’m going to be sick, so I run to the bathroom and wash my hand off with scalding hot water, scrubbing my nails, my cuticles, my knuckles, and everything in between.
The blood and pus have run down my leg so I reach into the medicine cabinet hanging between our vanities and grab the hydrogen peroxide. I use a towel to sop up the mess on my leg, pouring peroxide on the wound as I go. It burns. Bad. Sizzling in pain. I wince, seething through my teeth. I pour more. I pour and pour until eventually, the wound doesn’t bubble up anymore and I’m able to pat it dry with a new washcloth and place a band aid on the infected area. So much for not scratching the bites.
In my rush to clean myself up, I must’ve not heard Logan come through the front door because I see him in the mirror, standing in the doorway to the bathroom.
“You okay, Vi?” He asks, a worried look on his face. “What happened?”
I look away quickly, wiping away excess hydrogen peroxide from my leg. “It’s nothing,” I say. “Just scratched a mosquito bite too much.”
I toss the washcloths into the hamper and make my way to Logan. We embrace and I’m reminded why I did decide to marry him and give up my dreams of leaving this place for good. He’s warm; his chest swallows me whole. He has always given the best hugs. He smells like comfort and home— the place I’ve always known I’m meant to be.
“Violet?”
“Yeah,” I take a deep breath in, smiling into his chest. “What’s up?”
“Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?”
I step away from him, thinking that’s such a strange question to ask. “I mean, I guess? I see myself in the mirror everyday.”
“No, look,” he says, adjusting my body to face away from the mirror. “Look at your back.”
Confused, I glance over my shoulder with furrowed brows. And when I see it, my eyes widen. Not only is there a huge nest of mosquito bites just above my knee, but there is an even bigger agglomeration of bumps and bites just below my shoulder blade, toward my spine. I’m only able to see them because I’m in sleep shorts and a sports bra. How had I not noticed these before? Unlike the ones on my leg, they don’t itch.
But they definitely look more irritated. Some of the bumps are huge, as big as a quarter maybe, and others are so small they look like the start of chickenpox.
“What the fuck?” I say, reaching over my shoulder to touch them. Fortunately, they don’t itch, but they are sore, like a mosquito has just freshly bitten me within the span of me putting the lasagna in the oven until now.
“Those were some bloodthirsty mosquitoes,” Logan says jokingly, a slight laugh leaving his throat.
I turn around and glare at him, but before I can retort, the oven timer beeps. I have to get the lasagna out of the oven before it burns, so I head to the kitchen, pushing past Logan.
We eat dinner in silence, mostly. Logan interrupts me several times to get me to stop scratching myself. The truth is, I don’t even notice I’m doing it; it’s like my brain is subconsciously wired to scratch the bites, like it knows when the cream’s medicine wears off, they’ll start itching again.
I decide to put some oven mitts on my hands to deter the scratching. I can’t deal with another blood and pus mishap from earlier. I’m a self-proclaimed coward when it comes to blood and guts— I was never meant to be a doctor.
When dinner’s finished, I clean up the kitchen as per usual, filling the dishwasher with dirty dishes and washing those that can’t be put in the dishwasher. Logan is enthralled with Call of Duty on his PlayStation. I can barely get a word out of him when I ask if he wants dessert.
Instead of submitting myself to the torture of inattention, I grab a chocolate chip cookie out of the pantry and head to the bedroom. It’s too early for sleep, but at this point, I don’t care. My body is exhausted and I feel like I’ve run at least three marathons today— my heart feels worn out and my muscles are sore. It doesn’t make sense to me though. I haven’t done anything too strenuous today. I got off work early and came home to relax— nothing too out of the ordinary.
Shrugging, I eat my cookie and rest my head on my pillow, although it’s a little difficult with the oven mitts on. I make do, though. I guzzle down a few big sips of water, and the minute I close my eyes, sleep takes over.
——
It feels like it’s only been a couple of minutes when I’m woken up by an extreme amount of pain in my legs and back. It almost feels like something is crawling underneath my skin, throbbing and pulsating, eating its way through my veins and arteries and muscle. I jolt up and throw the covers off me, letting out an agonized wail. When I do, Logan comes rushing into the bedroom. And that’s when I notice it. My leg.
It’s swollen at least three times its size. All the bumps and bites have popped open, each one oozing out thick bursts of blood and thick, yellow pus. One bump bursts open as I look and I scream in pain, a burning sensation traveling up my leg. I have never felt pain this bad in my entire life.
“Shit,” Logan says, rushing to my side. “Fuck, what do I do, Vi?”
“Oh, God,” I cry out. “It hurts so bad.”
There’s a loud popping sound and I realize it’s my back, my spine, cracking forward, and I double over in agony. What the fuck is happening to me?
“Violet!” Logan screams, but it’s so hard for me to acknowledge he’s even there.
There’s more popping and bursting as each bump and bite on my leg and back bursts open to release the contents inside. My bones are cracking with the pops, twisting and bending at odd angles. I can feel something moving and writhing inside of me— it’s trying to take over.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Logan scrambling to find what I think is a phone. Between each cracking bone and the bed soaking in my blood, I can’t even think straight enough to ask him to call an ambulance.
My stomach roils and I lean over the bed, vomiting up everything we ate for dinner. Chunks of red noodles and granules of cheese hack their way out of my stomach and into a pile on the carpet. I cough aggressively after everything comes up, spitting the leftover bile onto the carpet with the rest of the mess. That’s when I notice it.
A lone mosquito on top of the pile of vomit, rubbing its front legs together, preparing to take off. I can feel the blood drain out of my face. My stomach twists in pain. I vomit again, this time sending a couple more mosquitoes shooting out of my body. But they aren’t just coming out of my throat; they’re coming out of the pustules too.
It’s dozens of mosquitoes at first, flying out one by one like each burst of a bite is hatching one egg after the other. Logan is standing farther away from the bed now, unsure of what to do. To be honest, I’m not sure I want him near me anyway.
More mosquitoes make their way out of me. There’s hundreds, maybe thousands. One by one they fly out of the holes in my body, fly out of my vomit on the floor, buzzing and whirring around the room. I feel like I might pass out.
At some point I think Logan opens the window because, with time, the amount of mosquitoes lessens within the room. They must be going outside to find their next victim. In the distance, I can hear the screeching noise of what sounds like an ambulance siren.
I think I see red, flashing lights, but I don’t register anything because within the next few moments, I pass out from exhaustion.
——
I wake up to a steady beeping noise and bright, fluorescent lights. It’s obvious I’m in the hospital, but how long have I been out?
My eyelids feel heavy; I can barely open them, and the light is so bright it hurts my eyes. I feel like I can’t move my body; something tight is wrapped around each of my limbs. My chest is heavy, too, like a fifty pound weight is resting on top of me.
“Violet?”
I recognize Logan’s voice; it’s soft, sort of far away.
“Hm?” I mumble, it’s really all I can get out.
“Hey, baby. You’re awake. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Somehow I don’t believe his reassurance. I pass out again.
——
A week later and I’m out of the hospital, resting at home. The doctors are still unsure of what happened to me. They say the few mosquito bites I did get from being outside a few weekends ago somehow progressed into the pests laying eggs inside of their bites. The incubation period was short, and they hatched within a few days.
They broke several of my bones in the process with the force of trying to burrow out from under my skin. I even suffered a mild fracture to my spine. I’m forced to wear a cast on my leg and a sling on my right arm. On top of everything else, I even contracted a severe case of malaria and was in and out of consciousness for days in my hospital bed.
The doctors didn’t think I was going to make it with such extensive injuries, but given my strong will, I made it with a stroke of luck.
I can’t sleep at night without having nightmares of bugs crawling all over my body, worms slipping into my ears and nose, mosquitoes biting every inch of my exposed skin. I usually wake in a cold sweat with tears streaming down my face. Logan is always there to comfort me.
I haven’t left the house in days. I spend my time cleaning and disinfecting every surface in the house at least twice. Three times. Maybe four. I don’t see how any germ could be left in the house, but that doesn’t stop me from cleaning and disinfecting. There can be no more mosquito incidents. I can’t go outside. I won’t. I can’t risk getting bitten or stung by any bug flying around, waiting for a vulnerable victim to show up.
I can’t go through that pain and itching and suffering again. No matter how many times Logan begs me to go with him to get something to eat or go on a picnic with him, I refuse. Even when he comes back, I make him strip down to his boxers, spray him with disinfectant spray and throw his clothes into the washing machine with scalding hot water.
The thing is though, Logan’s parents invited us to come spend the weekend with them Friday. Of course Logan wants to go, but he says he won’t go without me.
At some point I have to face my truth and brave the outside. It might be this weekend, but really, I don’t know when I will.
Sighing, I glance out the window, pulling the blanket covering me up to my chin. The sun is shining and it looks warm— it’s really a beautiful day.
Maybe I should try— go outside and conquer my fear. Only just for a second.
I start to get up, placing my feet flat on the floor, bracing myself to walk toward the door.
Until I hear it.
A small fly buzzes past my ear and lands on the window, fluttering around in a circle, leaving a trail of grime and germs in its wake.
I blink once and scream.