Finding the Truth Inside the Lie

The itching was unbearable.

Vincent stared at his reflection in the mirror, the fluorescent lighting turning him an unappetizing waxy shade. He opened his mouth, trying to peer down his throat. Nothing. Nothing in his nose, either. He stuck a fingertip in his ear as far as he could and twisted, hoping to get at it, but he just couldn't reach.

He searched the bathroom and found some alcohol, but no dropper. After considering, he soaked a cotton ball and squeezed it into his ear canal, tipping his head to hold it in. He even hopped on one foot to help it along, but it still wouldn't reach.

Several months ago, he'd noticed a sharp increase in his hair loss. And then the itching started. Dandruff seemed the logical answer, but the medicated shampoos hadn't helped. In fact, the itching had gotten worse.

He leaned over and picked up the bottle of whiskey sitting on the back of the toilet, taking a deep swallow. When it had first started, the itching had been all over his scalp, as if larvae had hatched just under the skin. He'd scratched like a motherfucker, sometimes breaking the skin, but nothing helped. It only got worse.

Vincent walked to the closet and took down a hanger. The itching had migrated over the last few weeks, and was now deeper inside his head. He couldn't always tell where it was, sometimes his sinuses itched, sometimes deep inside his ears. Right now, he could feel it behind his eyes. Constant, maddening; it refused him sleep, he lost interest in food. Drinking seemed to be the only fix.

He leaned in toward the mirror again, his soft belly resting on the edge of the sink. Straightening the hanger, Vincent took another drink, and then set the bottle down with a clatter. Looking himself in the eye, he stretched his lids wide with thumb and forefinger, and then jammed the straight end of the thick wire deep into his eye socket.