Scratching At the Surface

Vincent stared at his reflection in the mirror, the fluorescent lighting turning him an unappetizing shade of pale. He opened his mouth, trying to peer down his throat. Nothing. Nothing in his nose, either. He stuck a fingertip in his ear as far as he could and twisted, hoping to get at it, but he just couldn’t reach.

The itching was unbearable.

He searched the bathroom and found some alcohol, but no dropper. After considering, he soaked a cotton ball and squeezed it into his ear canal, tipping his head to hold it in. He even hopped on one foot to help it along, but it still wouldn’t reach.

Several months ago, he’d noticed a sharp increase in his hair loss. And then the itching started. Dandruff seemed the logical answer, but the medicated shampoos hadn’t helped. In fact, the itching had gotten worse.

He leaned over and picked up the bottle of whiskey sitting on the back of the toilet, taking a deep swallow. When it had first started, the itching had been all over his scalp, as if larvae had hatched just under the skin. He’d scratched like a motherfucker, sometimes breaking the skin, but nothing helped. The itching only got worse.

Vincent walked to the closet and took down a hanger. The itching had migrated over the last few weeks, and was now deeper inside his head. He couldn’t always tell where it was, sometimes his sinuses itched, sometimes deep inside his ears. Right now, he could feel it behind his eyes. Constant, maddening; it refused him sleep, he lost interest in food. Drinking seemed to be the only fix.

He leaned in toward the mirror again, his soft belly resting on the edge of the sink. Straightening the hanger, Vincent took another drink, and then set the bottle down with a clatter. Looking himself in the eye, he stretched his lids wide with thumb and forefinger, and then jammed the straight end of the thick wire deep into his eye socket. He screamed, the muscles in his face spasming, fluid from his ruined eye streaming down his cheek and nose. He corkscrewed the hanger, and then yanked it back out, the remnants of his deflated eyeball sagging from it, his exposed optical nerve extending from his face. He had no words. Screaming like an animal, gripping the curve of the sink faucet, he kept working.

Fuck fuck fuck that hurts. Jesus fuck fu—what was that? He paused, the hanger in his fist.

Knocking. Loud, insistent knocking at the door.

Vincent blanked, panic seeping through the pain, his limited sight scanning the bloodied wire in the sink, the splashes of crimson on the mirror, his face and chest.

“Mr Fannelli?” More knocking, progressing to pounding. “It’s the super. Open up.”

Vincent swung around, losing his balance for a second, and grabbed the towel from the ring by the vanity. He took a few swipes at the fresh blood, doing little more than smearing it. Shit. He stomped to the bedroom, pulling on a shirt he found on the floor.

“Uh, be right there, Joe.” The shouting made his socket throb, his heartbeat pulsing agony.

He pulled on a ski mask, shaking his head. This won’t look suspicious. And the itching was returning. God.

Vincent strode to the door, unhooked the chain and unbolted the deadlock. Opening just a crack, he peeked out, hiding the ravaged half of his face. “Joe.”

“Heya, Mr. Fannelli.” Joe tried peering farther into the room, but Vincent blocked him. “I got a report of yelling. You know anything about that?”

“No.”

“And you’re okay?” Joe squinted, concern on his face.

“Migraine.”

Joe stared at him for a few seconds, and then nodded. “You sure? You’re slurring a little.”

“Migraine. Gonna get in bed.”

Joe nodded, and Vincent closed the door. He leaned against the doorjamb, exhausted, sore. And it slid back in full force, undaunted, mocking him. The itching was merciless, fire ants swarming over his delicate flesh. His brain seemed to writhe under the onslaught, reduced to unthinking escape, swelling against the inside of his skull. Vincent bit into his hand to keep from screaming again, sobs beating against his palm. Tears streamed from his remaining eye. He was so tired; hadn’t slept or eaten for days. What can I do?

Vincent inhaled, tugging off the mask. He had to get to it, dig it out. And fast, before I lose it completely. Deliberate steps to the bedroom, and then left to the bath. He picked up the hanger again, looked at the raw, jagged flesh inside his empty socket. He took his lower lip in his teeth and slowly pushed the hooked wire into his ruined face one more time. He didn’t realize, but he bit through his lip during that first thrust. After a few seconds, he grayed out for a moment, and then his vision returned. Sweat beaded and tracked down his temples as he worked, creeping farther into his head. He vomited without altering course, the viscous fluid seeping into his shirt, cooling his belly as it dried. He had no choice.

As if it knew he was coming, the attack intensified, a frenzy of bees inside his meninges, stinging, imbedding poison deep inside his cortices. He sobbed, bloody saliva running down his chin, his lips pulled back in a grimace. The wire scraped on, digging deeper, scooping out bits of bloody meat until Vincent could see. He saw, understood, and then lost all reason, gibberish pouring from his throat like graveled despair. He slid to the floor. God oh God oh God—

His fingers crept up to the hole in his face, and then with ginger exploration sought confirmation. Pain no longer registered as shock settled over him, and he calmed. Three fingers inched their way deep inside his head, past his inner ocular cavity, and as they grasped the offending strands and tugged, he thought before passing out: So, that’s where my hair went.