The Scratching

You hear a scratching

Imagine you’re a person. Or maybe you won’t have to imagine.

You’re 25 years old.

One night, you hear a noise. Or do you?

You can’t be sure. Could just be your imagination.

But you think you hear a scratching. A faint, annoying sound. It sounds as if something is clawing to get in to your room. Or at floorboards.

It only happens when you shut your eyes as you pass out from tiredness. The last second before you sleep.

But it happens every night.

It carries on for days, weeks, months, YEARS. Doesn’t affect your dreams or mental health. You kind of just accept it, putting it down to the weird brain activities that happen as you drift into sleep.

You get checked out by a doctor. You’re in perfect health.

You try recording the room. But there’s no scratching on the video.

You are the only one that can hear it.

It lasts a second. But without fail.

Every. Night.

You get married. You have children. They give you grandchildren. You experience all of life’s events. You are outgoing but understand when to rein it in. You’re liked. A generous, helpful and caring individual.

You’re struck down by a sudden illness. You’ve amazingly never been ill since you were younger. You can’t remember the age.

I mean, you’re 95 years old at this point. So it’s expected but still somehow unexpected. You are a “unique case” the doctors say, unable to pinpoint what the actual disease is.

They give you the life expectancy of a month. While a shock, after a few minutes you begin smiling;

“It’s about time I made space for someone else.”

Everyone chuckles through their sobs.

You don’t get the whole month.

Two weeks later, you lay on your deathbed; surrounded by the generations you helped create and nurture. From 80 to 6 months old. Everyone is putting on a brave face for you.

The room is a simple private room. Fairly small, clinical white with a window that you can look out of and see your favourite view. Your bed, nice comfortable visitor chairs and an attached bathroom with a mirror on the door, which faces the bed when closed; as it is now.

You’ve taken stock of your life and used that mirror many times to help relive memories.

You find it peaceful.

The sound of muffled cries and the beeping of the Holter monitor, indicating your heartbeat, echo around the room.

A flashbang of electricity runs through you. It hurts but you don’t show it, for your family’s sake. You lay your head on the pillow and smile, closing your eyes.

The beeping turns into a hollow buzz as you flatline.

Your life flashes before your eyes, the good significantly outweighs the bad. You close your eyes and breathe deeply.

Then.

The scratching.

Loud.

Deafening.

Your eyes shoot open as your ears start to bleed.

The sound is piercing your skull. There’s nothing but it. It’s almost blinding you.

You see the blood.

But…it’s not from your ears.

The room is silent, minus the scratching.

The family that was, mere minutes ago, comforting you in the last moments.

Dead. Massacred. Torn apart. Disembodied. 20 people. Executed.

You yell for help but only a raspy whisper comes out. Survivors guilt hits for a few seconds. You are too enveloped in the scene that you don’t realise that, though you’re in a hospital, there’s absolutely no sound outside your room.

The window is covered in dried blood, thick enough to block both the view and any chance of cleaning it. Only the faint green of the machine’s monitor illuminates the room. You notice, however, phone flashlights pointing in, and from, all directions create enough light.

The room smells of rotting flesh and, when you gather the stomach to look for a second, you can see that most of the corpses are, in fact, rotting. Organs and all matter are spread around.

You also hear….dripping?

Your eyes find the source.

The blood drips from disembodied limbs dangling overhead, spread around the room.

But…

You see the wounds on your skin…but…it’s not your skin….is it?

The shock wears off. You did this. The smell hits you and you go to gag before you realise that…you enjoy it.

You are as fit as ever as you detach the machines from your body.

Like an animal, your pupils dilate as you bathe in the puddles of blood. Slowly inspecting each bit of remains, cradling it as if a newborn.

Sniffing them in delight at the horrific mess you’ve made.

You hate yourself for it.

Your thoughts scream in your head.

A mix of denial, loathing and…an ever growing craving for more.

You know what you must do.

A second of slight hesitation before you rip the torn, tattered flesh from your own arm with your teeth. Almost snarling as you devour it, your mouth foaming in pleasure at the sweet taste.

Then.

The scratching.

Your thoughts are gone.

Only the scratching remains. The craving intensifies.

You want to grieve but, as you look at the faces of your family, you feel nothing.

Their faces but indistinguishable blurs.

You can’t recall any names and the memories are all but gone.

The last ounce of humanity fades from you.

The scratching suddenly combines with a cracking and mind-numbing pain.

You scream in absolute agony. But, the sound does not escape your lips.

You begin clawing at your ears, tearing them off.

But it doesn’t help.

Nothing helps.

You hyperventilate.

You want to die but…the craving is stronger.

Silence.

It stops.

You look up, and see a fractured mirror.

There’s a word written in different juices/parts/organs/flesh, you’re not sure and don’t care to identify what it is made up of.

One.

Single.

Word.


M I M I C


Imagine you’re a person.