Sick

It was something about her voice and the way it made me itch. Each dragged out syllable was on beat with my nails to my skin. Sure she noticed it, but that only made her talk more. She'd ask and she'd ask, "Why scratch, Rico?" but I never answered because I never had anything nice to say. It didn't get quiet though, oh no, she always filled my silence. The whine and bounce of her drawl urged my fingers faster until I broke skin and she sent me out. Every time it went the same direction and I left with the same bloody finger nails. Yesterday was no exception.

We went in cycles of Tuesdays. Each Tuesday came and passed with the clock tick in the voice of my therapist. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Sleep. Repeat. Every single week was the same for me, but not this week. This week, I found a pen just laying in the hallway. One of the doctors might've dropped it from their uptight, ever present clipboards. They looked away for a quick second and it became my pen. My pen in my pocket as they walked me down my hall. It stayed away in that pocket as it became Sunday and still when Sunday became Monday. Then suddenly, it was Tuesday. 

The march down to her office had me thinking dead man walking every time. Sometimes, I'd begin to itch before even entering the office. "Why scratch Rico?" The same question as always with the same piercing tone. This time, I thought harder about it. There were other things to be done despite scratching. That was when my pen began to burn in my pocket. Her talking was nauseating, but maybe her screaming would be easier to handle. Only one way to truly find out, wasn't there?

Now, I couldn't say exactly what I did to get over her desk so fast. Her surprise was as great as my own, but only for a blink. In the next blink, there was my pen out of my pocket and into her neck. It took quite a bit of force and a couple tries for it to go in clean. By the time I did manage, she was already screaming and to my pleasure, it wasn't the same horrendous tone she spoke in. I allowed myself that minute of relief to sit and watch as she tried to pull the red soaked pen from her skin. 

The urge to itch returned unexpectedly and stronger than ever with her loudly yelled helps and nurse. I scowled angrily at her and yanked the pen away. She was gasping and gushing like I'd expect of a fish, but it wasn't enough. Like every other Tuesday, I began to scratch. By then, nurses were banging on the door as I tore up her face. I'd never scratched so furiously before and it was a vindicating release. When the door flew open we were both a mess and they dragged me away so tightly. Walking down the hall with blood under my nails completed our ritual Tuesday.

Like every other day, I was lead and locked in my room. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Sleep. Repeat, but this time I couldn't sleep. It wasn't long before her blood grew stiff and flaky on my hands. I tried to ignore it yet it was screaming at me. The dried blood was screaming in her clawing, grating voice and I found myself scratching. Scratching at my own skin wasn't the same, it wasn't the release. I wanted to see my therapist and I wanted to scratch at her. They wouldn't let me out, though. They wouldn't listen no matter how loud I screamed. 

 That was yesterday. Today is Wednesday and I've composed myself. Of course they wouldn't take me back to her. I had to wait for Tuesday and then we would cycle. I found myself anticipating this Tuesday unlike the others before it. It was something about her voice and the way it itched that made me excited to see her. Yesterday was nice in all its quiet red and screaming. I slept and now I'll await step three. Repeat.