Laura Shell

The Scratching

There she is. Scratching at the wound on her left arm. She doesn’t remember how she got it. But it’s there. Circular. The size of a dime. An abrasion. But she makes it worse with the scratching. 

She scratches until it bleeds, and she gets blood beneath her fingernails, half-moons of crimson, which dry and flake away, ruining her pristine pedicure.

Sometimes she presses a paper towel against the bloody imperfection in her otherwise smooth skin. The bleeding subsides, just taking a break, until she gets the urge to scratch again. 

Sometimes she scrutinizes the blotches of red that permeate the paper towel. She rips away one of the stains, puts it in her mouth, sucks on it, rolls it into a ball with her tongue, and swallows it.

Her motivation for doing this eludes her. 

Scratching, scratching, scratching. 

There are streaks of blood up and down her arm now, looking like war paint. She presses a blemished fingernail into the center of the wound, watches the blood pool up like a red bubble of mercury. 

She licks it away, grits her teeth against the sting in her skin.

Maybe she’s gone too far.