Chilling Horror Stories

Ecdysis Three

***

I tell Dr. Allison that it's my fault. That Mamma is dead because I couldn't help her. My beard quivers and I tug at it, dis lodging a handful of beetles in the process.
Dr. Allison asks what I think I could have done to help Mamma. She doesn't notice the insects tumble from my fingers and scurry towards her.
I explain that the infestation is too much for a single person to accommodate. Mamma hadn't been trying to kill me that day in the hospital, as I'd thought at the time. We'd shared the burden before and she desperately needed to share it again, but I had been too afraid. I hadn't noticed.
She tells me that this is a major breakthrough. That the insects are just a representation of suppressed guilt. That all I have to do is learn to accept that I am blameless in my mother's death, and the bugs will go away.
The itch is almost unbearable now.

***

After that night, Dad and I didn't talk much. He assured me that what had happened was just a normal part of growing up, and that Mamma's death was responsible for transforming a normal, run-of-the-mill wet dream (the medical term is nocturnal emission) into a nightmare I had experienced. Whenever I tried to broach the subject of my affliction, Dad would just turn away and tell me to discuss it with Dr. Carlson. Then Dr. Leave the. The Dr. Cotner. He was incapable of sharing the burden of my illness any further than financing its treatment.

If he suspected anything when the Girl Scout disappeared while selling cookies on our block, he never said a word. Maybe because after that, things got better, a lot better. For a while.

   After nearly a decade of doctors and drugs, I stopped scratching and started sleeping again. That was the stretch where both Dad and I thought I was well enough to pursue a career in medicine after all. I moved out, enrolled in pre-med classes, and even took the MCAT. Scored damn well, too. I was out celebrating with some classmates who had also scored well when I felt the twinge.
 

  I always got a little anxious when something itched - I couldn't help it, it was a conditioned response - but this was different. The tickle between my left index finger and thumb wasn't the usual pruritoceptive itch (that's the medical term for an itch originating in the skin) I'd learned to accept as part of normal human physiology. It was deeper, and as the week passed, it grew in both distribution and intensity.

***

   I tell Dr. Allison that Mamma's isn't the only death I'm responsible for, a d she frowns, the excitement of our "breakthrough" melting from her face. I tell her I lied about my roommate's cat. That it had been an experiment because I felt so badly about the homeless women. And the Girl Scout, especially since she'd been an accident.
   I stand and pull my shirt over my head, revealing constellations of angry red sores. I scratch at them, and Dr. Allison asks me to please return to my seat. Her family r is calm, but her eyes are broadcasting an SOS to an empty ocean. She knows her secretary has gone home. There is nobody here to help her.
I am the last patient of the week. Always have been. Always will be.

***

   It was Dad's birthday, and he invited me over for dinner. He'd been pressuring me about medical school applications, and that night, I finally mustered the courage to tell him what I'd known for the better part of the semester. That no matter what my MCAT scored had been, or how outstanding my letters of recommendation were, I would not be attending medical school the following fall. The only explanation necessary was for me to roll up my sleeves.
   When Dad saw those old familiar craters, his face became an amalgam of disappointment and rage, and we spent the rest of the evening in silence. I thought he might never speak to me again, but as I was leaving, he told me to expect a call from Dr. Allison's office the following day.
   Cruising past City Park on my way home, the itch flared so intensely that I couldn't resist the need to rub my shrieking eyeballs. If there had been anyone else on the road, I'd have caused an accident for sure. I piloted the vehicle into three parking spaces and rubbed and scratched until my eyelids were swollen and my cheeksks were soaked with tears.
   I opened the door and tumbled out of the car. The cool autumn air acted as a salve against my hot, prickling skin, and it cahsed away the rank aura of failure that had shrouded me since realizing a normal life was forever beyond my reach. I didn't dare get back in my car, so I walked, following the cement perimeter for about half a mile before the itch flared again.

   I'd never entered the park after dark before, but the insanity burning just beneath my skin compelled me to abandon the sidewalk and venture into the wooded area. The prickling discomfort dulled, but did not abate, as I trudged deeper into the park. At the center was a playground. A pair of swings twirled lazily in the gentle breeze, inviting me to sample the careless freedom of childhood. As I approached, a shape broke free from mthe shadows.

   I froze, fearful of what it was, what it might be, what it might want, but it was just a homeless women.
She asked if I had any spare change. I didn't. If I had, I'd have given it to her. Not because of some altrustic impulse, but because as soon as she spoke, my sking ignited once again, and I knew if I didn't put some distance between us it would be the end.
   I told her I wasn't carrying any cash (no, not even a few cents for a cup of coffee) and brushed past her, my interest in the swings gone. Her next proposition stopped me in my tracks. She offered to blow me.
   The medical term for this is fellatio.
  In all my years, I'd never had a girlfriend, had not so much as kissed a girl, or a guy for that matter, opting instead to avoid any and all forms of sexual stimulation as if they might spell death - if not for me, then for the object of my desire. The only desire within me at that moment was to relieve the horrible itch. Despite my disgust, I knew that if it wasn't now, it would be later, and I really did feel badly about the Girl Scout. I even lept one of her MISSING posters folded between the pages of my dad's old Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, next to a copy of Mamma's death certificate.
   With the flavor of bile creeping up my throat, I turned to face the women and accepted.