The Itch

Before there was consciousness, there was an itch. 

An itch that (damn all else) must be scratched at all costs. 

I can guarantee you there was a point in your life where you just couldn’t resist the itch.

It felt remarkable the first time you scratched it, no? It usually did. The second time? Sure. 

And what of the third, fourth - hell what about the twentieth?

You wanted more. Scoring your skin like rind wasn’t enough. You had to bend down and scratch, lie down and stab wince-worthy depressions into the skin with your waxy nails and eventually pick into the deeper layers but to no avail. The itch had already buried itself deeper than flesh and greater than bone.

By this point, it became greater than just a simple itch. You’ve deluded yourself in grandeur, drunk on the mere thought of euphoria. You’ve forgotten there was even a consciousness to attend to. You believed that nothing, truly nothing can quite match up to the first time you had scratched that itch. You’re not wrong. At least you got that through to your starved consciousness.

You remember it now, don’t you?

You were the victim. The fool. Your very own mark. No shame in it.

There is shame however, in regret. Not shameful as in showing remorse, apology or even repentance is undesirable - no, but shame for the individual realising their role as the sole, poignant driver of personal betrayal. Nothing grounds a man faster than the consequences of their own actions, believe me. You’d lie in bed, running your fingers along the wallpaper tracing messages inked with the ephemeral vitriol of guilt, desire - anything that dares persist in your mind as the wallpaper becomes the last tether between consciousness and the mercilessness of your own thoughts…

What do you hear? Taunts of a mistake that cost you, or someone else dearly? The whispering nothings of a lover that slipped through your fingers? Whatever it may be, it’s the only barrier between you and that wretched itch - and you can’t do anything about it.

It was your fault. Somewhere out there, you and you alone are someone else’s justification.You’ve yanked the chain, and somewhere down the links it’s snapped up at someone.

I hope you’re happy. Most people would kill to make a mark on others. Some people would kill.

Maybe that someone is you. Someone willing to cross the threshold. Someone willing to take hold of the blade and slice out a pound of flesh - no, THE pound of flesh that itches so very much?

Well? Are you that someone?