Thanks to all who took part in my second little competition. I enjoyed reading all the entries – the winner, for her original take on the prompt and a well-crafted story, is Cathy Lennon.
He watched her scratching. The blood, rising like a seam on her nape. She’d had most of her hair cut off, a pixie cut that really didn’t suit her but she’d gone past caring. She just wanted the itch to stop. ‘Can you see it?’ she’d cry, thrusting a scabby forearm underneath his nose. At first he’d put on his glasses and examine the skin closely, searching for the tiny creatures, like kinetic fibres, she swore were there. All he could ever see were the weals drawn by her fingernails. He’d gone online and sent for cutting- edge, scientifically-proven new creams from transatlantic pharmacies, potions from China, even phials of supercharged water from sites of pilgrimage. Nothing worked. He’d soothed her and assured her he believed her even when the doctors had not. She’d caught the meaningful glance the consultant had shared with him at their last appointment and now she was pitiful in her desperation.
Last night, for the hundredth night in a row, she had sobbed and scratched herself to sleep beside him. In the morning, before she woke up, he went to the spare room and rummaged for an old box he’d remembered. He cut lengths of thread from the cotton reel in her long-discarded sewing basket and took tweezers from the bathroom cabinet. She looked at him bleary-eyed as he stood by the bed. He opened the lid. ‘I got some of them,’ he said. She blinked and smiled up at him. ‘Tonight, while you’re sleeping, I’ll get some more.’ She took one look at the threads and flung her scabby arms around his neck. He pressed her shaking body to him with unspeakable relief. ‘I knew you believed me,’ she said.