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The Itch Was Gone

Story ID:11267
Written by:Michael Timothy Smith (bio, link, contact, other stories)
Story type:Fiction
Location:Caldwell IDAHO United States
Year:2017
Person:Michael
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OurEcho Preface This post deals with a mature theme or contains explicit language. While the post is not extremely violent or pornographic, it does contain language or explore a subject matter that may offend some readers. If you do not wish to view posts that deal with mature themes, please exit this post.
I edited this. I wanted to make it more disgusting.



This is unlike anything I've written before. It a dark and twisted story that was on my mind when I woke on Christmas morning, of all days to have this idea.

It's also a lot longer than I normally write

Mature content.

The Itch was Gone

Michael was 57 years old. Life was good. His health wasn’t the greatest, but he lived a
comfortable life with his beautiful wife Ginny.

Retirement was his dream, but he didn’t have much hope of reaching it within his
lifetime. The years had been rough.

Ginny was out of town to visit her son. He sat on the sofa, writing a story on his
computer and watching television. He felt an itch on his right shin and scratched it innocently.

By nightfall, the itch was maddening.

He kept scratching.

The next morning, there was a rash, which he kept scratching.

Within days, the rash spread over his lower right leg, then his left leg, his thighs and eventually his arms and torso.

He couldn’t sleep. He’d wake throughout the night tearing at his skin. When his fingernails started to slide over the skin, he knew he went too deep. Blood made his skin feel
like rubbing hot fingers over ice.

The backscratcher, he kept at his bedside, became his best friend. In the morning, his
fingernails were black, caked underneath with dead skin that he tore from his body.

His lack of a job, prevented him from having health insurance. He suffered without care.

Things changed. He was recalled to work and received the blessed insurance. His wife
came home from her extended stay with her son and his family. She saw his condition and was
shocked.

In the morning, the bed spread had blood stains and a coating of dead skin on it. Ginny
washed them every other day.

The first doctor said, “I always go with my gut feeling. I think this is scabies.”

He gave Michael a lotion to coat himself with.

It did nothing.

Michael knew it wasn’t scabies.

He was nowhere near where he could have caught it and the symptoms didn’t
match, but, hey, Michael wasn’t a doctor.

Ginny helped him apply the lotion.

As expected, it didn’t help.

He went to a dermatologist, who laughed “They always suspect scabies. No! Just looking
at you, I can tell this is eczema.”

They gave Michael a steroid shot and a regiment of lotions and potions and told him to
come back in two weeks.

The steroid helped temporarily. The rash cleared and the itching stopped, but a month
later, it was back with a vengeance. It went on for several months. At one point, they had him
shower, put the lotions on, then damp clothing and then wear a vinyl suit for a few hours to hold
dampness in.

It was supposed to moisturize his skin.

It didn’t work.

Throughout it all, he suffered with scaling skin and itch.

He tried a different primary physician. That doctor looked at me. “I love a puzzle.”

The doctor ordered many blood tests, sent him to a new dermatologist and gave
him more steroids. The doctor also took a biopsy of his skin. The results were inconclusive.
Parts of it looked like it might be psoriasis, but other sections didn’t. The pathologist
could not give a definitive diagnosis.

The steroids worked like the time before, but after a few weeks, the rash and itch were
back.

One evening, when the itch really kicked in, he walked into his garage. On his work table
sat his power sander.

He looked around. He was alone. His wife was in the living room watching TV.

On his right thigh, a spot flared up. He started to scratch it and decided scratching
wasn’t enough.

He plugged the sander’s power cord into the socket, placed the sand paper against
the itching spot and applied pressure to the power button.

He watched with amazement as the rough paper took off layers of itching skin.
There was a little blood too, but he didn’t care. The itch was gone temporarily.

It wasn’t enough. A week later, he saw his drill.

Michael picked it up. “This might help.”

He selected the smallest bit in his set, inserted it in the drill, dropped his pants and
looked at the spots on his legs that itched the most.

The bit cut into his flesh with ease. Drops of blood and bits of flesh flew from the bit in a
red spiral. It covered his thigh and dripped to the floor of his garage. Michael made a mental note
to clean it up before Ginny saw it and asked questions.

He must have screamed, because his wife called out, “Are you OK?”

“I’m OK. I just stubbed my toe.”

“OK! Just checking.”

“I’m OK.”

He bandaged his wounds and pulled up his pants to cover it. In bed, his wife
asked, “Why are you wearing pajamas bottoms? You never wear them.”

“My skin is so sensitive, I get cold at night.”

“OK. Sleep well.”

And he did. He didn’t itch that night, but he took pain killers to numb the ache
in all the spots he’d drilled. There were several, even in his calves.”

Ginny’s daughter was also having medical problems. She needed her Mom’s help, so
Ginny left, for what was to be a couple weeks, but ended up being several months.

Michael smiled. He was free to drill and drill he did. Small hoes appeared in his arms,
legs and even his torso, but he didn’t drill deep there. He could not risk the chance of hitting
a major organ.

His body was covered in bandages. Michael cancelled all his doctor appointments.
He thought, “I’m my own doctor, solving my own problems.”

The itch always seemed to find a spot where the drill hadn’t been before. It was
especially bad on the top of his right foot. There were too many bones there to drill, but there
was another solution.

He had a circular saw.

When he couldn’t take it anymore. he picked up the saw, put a fine edged blade in it and
took several pain killers, grabbed his blow torch and went to work. The saw cut through flesh
and bone easily. Blood sprayed from the blade. Chips of bone, painted in blood bounced of the
wall and rattled against the side of his car. It sounded like windblown hail beating against his
home back in Nova Scotia, Canada, where he grew up.

His right foot fell to the floor. The thump it made, sounded dead, which it now was.
He stared at it – amazed. It might have been the pain killers or the blood draining from it, but
the foot went from the red scaly thing it was to a pale, white clump of fresh meat. Before
he bled out, I picked up the blow torch, lit it and pointed the blue flame to where his foot once
was. The stench of burning flesh was nauseating. Even with the pain killers, the pain almost
made him pass out, which would not be good. He wouldn’t be able to finish his work and would
fall to the floor and die from blood loss.

He continued until he cauterized the stump of his leg.

It didn’t cross Michael’s mind how he would explain to Ginny why his foot was
missing.

He slept in a “pain killer” stupor for days and developed a fever. When it broke, he
climbed from his feces covered, urine soaked bed. With the help of crutches, that he had from
when he twisted his ankle years before, he managed to move around the house and clean himself .

A week later, the itch came back. This time, it was on his left wrist. He got the circular
saw and blow torch, which were in the kitchen, where he’d cleaned the blood from them. A man
takes pride in keeping his tools clean.

He picked up his pain killers, slipped them in his pocket and went into the garage, which
now smelled like a meat locker.

He’d forgot to clean up the puddle of blood from the garage floor, but Ginny missed it,
because her car had been outside since she returned from her last trip. A swarm of flies flew
over the mess as he approached. The puddle rippled on the surface, as if a wind kicked up
small waves. He stared. There was no wind. The ripples were caused by a school of maggots.

Michael plugged the saw into the power outlet and went to work.

Soon the itch was gone …for now.

Michael T. Smith