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October 3rd, 1986 

I have an itch. One that is sharp and pinging. One that can’t be ignored. 

I can’t reach it. It’s in a spot inaccessible by any digit of my hands, even when I use the mirror and contort my arm. I’ll have to use something else. 

I scope out a wall corner and rub my back side to side against it, hard. A slight relief it is, but the itch is still there, and now I’m sure this is the worst itch I’ve ever had. I’ll need to use something else. 

Something abrasive. 

October 4, 1986

It is clear to me now that the itch is coming from inside. I’ve been harboring it. It thinks it is here to stay. I won’t allow that. 

It’s been a war, I’ll admit, and I haven’t won yet. I feel as if the itch is mocking me, ridiculing me with every attempt to get rid of it. The more I itch, the itchier it becomes. 

Anyway, I’ll have to stop typing now. The typewriter is getting hard to use as blood and pus from my fingers cakes in the feed roller, and the itch is beckoning. 

Back to the sandpaper I go. 

October 7, 1986 

They admitted me. Those motherfuckers admitted me. They work for the itch. I know they do. They’re writing me off as a sepsis-induced lunatic. 

The itch is writing me off as a sepsis-induced lunatic. 

See, after I tried the wall I went and bought a back scratcher. That didn’t do it either. So I went to the hardware store, rang out a roll of the lowest-grit sandpaper I could find, wrapped it around the head of a spatula, secured it with some staples, and went to town. For a moment, I was emancipated, and there was no itch, only the hot burn of the sandpaper. But the itch saw it coming. No big deal, I thought. There’s a reason fabricators don’t sand by hand anymore. Humans are advanced. We have technology. The itch does not.

I knew I should have kept the garage door closed. My neighbor saw me leaning back into the belt sander, shirtless and moaning, and called the cops. I almost had it, was seconds away from defeating it, when they sedated me and brought me in. They put me under for two days, did reparative surgeries on my back, said I was lucky I didn’t paralyze myself. 

Now I’m locked up. It’s just me and this typewriter. 

And the itch. 

October 9, 1986

I made a deal with the itch. I will be free from it.

Soon.

October 10, 1986 

The nurse walks in. She is pale and has buttercup lips, a quintessential shrink nurse if I’ve seen one. I ask her to check under the bandages. I tell her I’m experiencing some stinging. That’s a lie. There’s only an itch.

 A terrible itch. 

She pulls the bandage off. There it goes. The feeling of the itch leaving me is like ten-thousand orgasms on ecstasy. I feel it walk on me, then run. It’s gooey and has little appendages. It laughs an imp laugh, then hops off me and onto the nurse. Into her. 

She screams, and for a second I feel awful for making the deal, but I needed reprieve.

Finally, I am free.