Infected

It started with an itch.

Right between her fingers, just on the webbing.

It traveled up her body, burrowing in, infesting her mind, her thoughts, her emotions.

As the water fell over her in the shower, she tried to scrub it off.
Tried to scare it off.
Tried to forget about it.
Tried to kill it.

It traveled to her stomach, nestling in, making itself at home, making her sick.

She sat in the corner of the shower as the water ran down her back, huddled in a ball, but not too tightly, avoiding movement or pressure that could bring it all to the surface.

It kept her awake at night.

The intense itch hiding beneath her skin; if she scratched it, it would get worse, but she couldn't ignore it.

The sickness would creep up on her when she was making tea, when she thought she remembered it all, when she thought of the present.

She knew she had to do something; get it checked, get it fixed, forget about it, be forgiven, tell someone, confess anything.

This itch was an itch that couldn't be fixed with ointment or lotions or potions.
This itch was an itch that could be scratched raw and continue to exist.

She wished she'd never let the itch into her life.