Andy and the itch

The air conditioner hummed a cool soft glow. He felt light, having completed his morning releases. The soothing voice of Andy droned on through his phone. His eyes were supposed to be closed, but he had them open, a ‘nice, soft focus’ as his instructor put it. He couldn’t smell anything, he’d been in this room for far too long. The taste of last night’s mangoes was still on his tongue, and upon their memory, the feeling of heaviness in his stomach from all that pasta. His hands were brushing each other, lightly interlocked, not wholly, only partially. He felt an itch in his arm. He ignored it, and focused on Andy’s voice. The itch grew stronger. He winced, closed his eyes, held them tighter. More insistent. With a sigh, he gave up, and another sigh of relief as the scratching cooled it. But only briefly. It undulated, like waves. First the itch, then the scratching, the cool relief, then the itch came back. A little bit stronger. Foot in the door. It had his fingers dancing to its tune. He could feel the sparse hair on his arm, between his shoulder and elbow. The muscle underneath a thin layer of fat. He flexed, as he kept scratching, a little bit of a smile on his face, widened as he felt the dual euphoric shots of pride and relief from his itch. He closed his eyes and kept scratching. Andy told him to let his mind go. For just a few moments. He did, not that he’d been holding it back. His body felt odd. He thought of the games he’d play today. After, in between work. A smile crept across his face, fading to the animal need to keep itching. The itch grew stronger. Now it was in flashes, but very painful. He kept scratching. The air conditioner hummed. His lamp, the wire for which was loose flickered a little. He saw the flicker through closed eyes. ‘Now come back to the breathing.’ He did. He began to not wipe all thoughts from his mind, but to note them, and observe them. And then distance himself from them. As if the thoughts and feelings were cars on a busy highway, and he were standing on the side, watching the traffic. The traffic was thundering along, he was being threatened to be pulled in to its magnetic swirl. He planted his feet firmly on the ground, now even in the landscape of his mind, he was scratching his arm. The epilogue began. Something about continuing with these thoughts, what you’ve taken from today’s exercise for the rest of the day. He kept scratching. The traffic was loud. The thoughts ere threatening to overwhelm him. Nothing stronger than the eighteen wheeler, by far the biggest car on this highway, that was the itch. His arm felt a little cool. Rubbery. The scratching had made it raw. And now it hurt to scratch. “You May open your eyes.” He did. And looked over towards his arm. It was covered in blood.