Under my skin
The rashes covered her body in patches. There was the festering patch
above her ancient gall bladder surgery scar - the one that looked like
she got into a knife fight, before they started doing the surgery
through three holes. The bumpy red skin itched so badly that she made
herself bleed nightly scratching for relief. The doctor didn't like that
the rash and scabs were on the scar. She couldn't understand why. She'd
had the surgery in the early 80s. It wasn't like there was a danger of
the wound opening back up.
Then there were the rashes at her crotch, huge patches of grey red
dry skin streaked by fingernail inflicted wounds. The itching was so
intense when she removed her clothes that she might stand in the hallway
at home just itching it, jaw slack, eyes focusing on nothing ahead of
her. The scratching then felt as good as sex, but the high was mixed
with pain, a stinging burn that rubbed raw and hurt. But nothing stopped
the itching.
There was an article online, she remembered, about a woman who
scratched her head so much and so hard that she dug a hole into her
brain. Light green liquid leaked out. She imagined it looked like the
goo from a spent glow stick, viscous and otherworldly. She imagined that
while she scratched herself as quietly as possible in the bathroom stall
at work, working at her rash vigorously whenever someone flushed or
turned on the water, so they couldn't hear. She could only guess what
they thought otherwise, listening to her dig into her flesh as she sat
on the toilet, skirt falling to the floor around her legs.
And, because she was raised by New Age Hippies, she wondered as she
scratched herself bloody, what wounds of the flesh meant. The skin, they
say, is the biggest organ. What terrible karma made her have an organ
so damaged and uncomfortable? What would the acupuncturist say? Or the
psychic on the corner of Telegraph and Durant who stared at her when she
walked by as if he was reading her mind. Did he know he made her feel
as if she couldn't escape? Was that part of his ploy for making money?
Or was he like Whoopie Goldberg's character in Ghost as she spoke to
Demi Moore with her perfectly smooth skin and the ability to throw on a
man's shirt and look sexy?
Aging is not for the meek, she thought as she pulled her hand up
away from her raw, red belly. Thank god no one had to see her like this.
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