Bugs

By D. J. Dixon

The bugs are in the room.

The bugs are in my head.

I scratch and itch. The bugs are in my bed.

A slow, painful madness begins to envelop me. I itch one bite, then two. Then two by two. Four by four. My body blooms to life with irritating little red patches, I scratch myself to the point of bleeding.

Something stops me, a voice, a warning; "If you scratch you'll only make it worse." Once again my mother's voice comes to me unbidden.

The madness of my body starts to catch up with the madness of my mind.

Scrathing, scratching at my own body's door.

Venom induced frenzy consumes my body while I sleep. I wake up a little bloody. A little more crazy.

Bug bombs. Bugspray. Itch cream. Medications. All in vain as I scratch a little more. With each scratch I lose a little more of myself. The beast within, my primal self screams to get out.

I gaze upon the heavens and wonder how long I can hold out. I consider hell. Hell considers me, I think. A few more scratches and the insect takes a little more. I am left with a little less.

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