Warning: the following story is aimed at an adult audience. (horror)
In response to Daily post’s Craving.
It started off as an itch at the back of your iris… Was it inside your eye, behind it? It was like a rat nibbling at your optic nerve; you sometimes had that misty grey filter over your eyes. Were you going blind-but why was it so itchy?
You tried to scratch it. You rubbed your eyes, scratched your temples, whisked your hair, pressed your fingers on your nose and tried burrowing into your nasion, underneath your glabella. It was making you crazy. You had little cuts where you had grown infuriated, and had dug your nails in too deep. You were light-headed, and your heart-rate was pulsing. You were all alone, in your room, in your house, in your street.
You look into the mirror, “Why, why is this happening?” Your hands started to shake. Were you even you anymore? What were you, if all you could feel was this itch behind your eyes, and now your shaking hands. Were you a person, a fully-functional human? Perhaps, but perhaps not.
If you were no longer human would that mean you were the itch? That uncontrollable feeling to touch the insides of your body. What were you hoping to find? What was there?
You look into your eyes, and see your colourless iris surrounding your widened pupils that seemed larger than black-holes at the time. They were magnificent, yet they had an ominous, grueling aura about them. Where did you go? Were you inside there-that itch? You follow the strain of your body, physically revealing blood red veins that crept to the surface of your eyeballs. You seemed paralysed staring at them.
You felt a feeling of emptiness in your stomach. You needed food, you needed substance, sustenance; you needed to do what the itch told you. You could taste the copper on your tongue, the taste of blood, and the taste of something that you should never try. For some reason, you had the sudden urge to peel off your face. You moved your hands closer to your face. When you reached it, you stopped, still staring at yourself in the mirror.
The itching stopped.
The craving ceased.
Was it gone?
Who am I now, if not my itch, my craving?