This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/CadmiumVeil on 2026-06-04 10:55:08+00:00.

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My skin itched.

Not the kind that starts out as a tickle.

Not the kind that is satisfied by a simple, gentle scratch.

The kind that was inside.

The kind you cannot reach.

I ignored it.

I showered in hot, scalding water.

Scrubbed my skin in hopes it would minimize the itch.

It was futile.

The itch remained.

I dried my hair.

Put make up on.

Dressed for work.

Slipped into my short heels.

Grabbed my purse.

I looked in the mirror before leaving.

Hair, perfect, curls soft and loose.

Skin, luminous, refreshed, bright.

Clothes, stylish, professional, chic.

I saw it then.

I ignored it.

My schedule did not allow time for this.

I got into the awaiting car.

Said good morning to my driver.

Gave the go ahead to take me to work.

I pulled my laptop out of my work bag.

I checked my email.

The itch persisted.

I rolled my shoulders, annoyed.

I ignored it.

Coffee was handed to me as I entered the office.

I nodded my appreciation to the assistant.

I knew she needed a raise.

I wanted to thank her.

But the itch…

The first meeting was boring.

The kind that should have been an email.

The kind that were always a waste of time.

I lacked the focus for it.

The itch demanded my attention.

I ignored it.

It festered by the end of the third meeting.

My leg bouncing the entire duration of the meeting.

My perfectly manicured nails, digging into my palms.

I wanted to dig them into my calf.

I wanted to remove the itch.

Someone asked me for my approval.

I had not been listening.

I looked at my laptop.

My assistant had summarized what he had proposed.

Indeed, a raise was needed.

I gave my approval for the project to proceed.

I dismissed the team and gathered my things.

My assistant handed me my preferred afternoon tea.

I gave her a grateful nod and my thanks.

I shut the door to my office.

I stared out the window, overlooking the city.

I gazed past the city to the ocean.

I glanced at the time.

Two more hours and I would leave.

Two more hours.

Then I could take care of the itch.

I sat at my desk.

My monitor brightened at the move of my mouse.

The itch demanded my focus.

I felt my hand move of its own will.

I felt my fingertips graze down my stocking.

I felt the nylon against the pads of my fingers.

My blood screaming at me.

Scratch it, scratch it, scratch it…

My phone rang.

My hand returned above my desk instantly.

I reached for the phone.

‘Yes?’

‘Your least favorite client is on line 2.’

The itch begged for relief.

I took the call.

It was my least favorite client.

Always lying.

Always complaining.

Always taking the easy way out.

One hour left.

My eye was twitching out of irritation.

I googled how to get rid of an annoying itch.

‘Apply a cool damp cloth.’

‘Hydrocortisone cream’

‘Colloidal oatmeal bath’

I could do that.

A bath sounded like heaven.

I sent a text to my assistant.

Asking for her to run to the nearest pharmacy.

She returned as I was packing up.

She handed me the bag.

I saw the oatmeal and the calamine lotion.

A raise, immediately.

I felt my body relax.

I exited the revolving doors.

My driver held the car door open for me.

I nestled into the backseat.

I placed my order at my favorite Indian place.

I gave the destination to him.

It would be ready in twenty minutes.

We would be there in seventeen.

From there another fifteen minutes until I was home.

Another five to get my food and bath setup.

Thirty-seven minutes and I would deal with the itch.

I could handle thirty-two minutes in the car.

I inserted my ear buds and selected a playlist.

Music could help take the mind off of anything.

I sat back in the seat, closing my eyes.

I let the music wash over me, claim me.

The second song started and it was unfamiliar.

I looked at my phone.

It slipped from my fingers.

Landing softly in my lap.

‘Itch’ by Nothing But Thieves was playing.

I removed the ear buds.

I turned off the music.

Twenty-six more minutes.

The itch whispered its demands.

Scratch me, please…

I bit my lip.

My fingers clenched.

Crescent moon marks etched into my palms.

I loosed a shaky breath.

I steeled my mind.

I counted my breaths.

One after another.

I prayed there would be no red lights.

I prayed the driver could sense my silent urgency.

There were red lights, the driver remained oblivious.

The itch was mocking me at this point.

Its incessant demanding would not cease.

I felt it consuming me.

I felt the jittery energy building within.

I felt it moving under my skin.

As if it was trying to get closer to me.

As if it was sentient.

The car stopped.

The itch receded.

The smell of curry filled the car.

Fifteen more minutes left.

I focused on the smell of the food.

The itch tempted me to touch it.

My mouth watered.

I ignored it.

The red light was long.

My leg was bouncing.

Anxious, nervous energy built again.

Seven more minutes.

I was ravenous.

A text notification lit the screen on my phone.

I glanced at it.

The assistant.

Checking in on me to make sure I was okay.

I thanked her and said I was fine.

I was not fine.

I wanted to scratch.

To claw.

To gouge.

I wanted to feel anything other than its unending presence.

It threatened to unravel the carefully curated exterior I had.

It threatened to rip me apart at the seams.

It threatened my grasp on reality.

It threatened to devour me whole.

It threatened to end me.

The car came to a stop.

Relief lay at the top of the building on my right.

I mindlessly thanked the driver.

I had the door open before he could unbuckle the seatbelt.

I grabbed my belongings and exited.

The doorman smiled at me and greeted me by name.

I gave him a rushed smile.

I made a beeline for the elevator.

The doors parted and I entered.

The button illuminated as soon as I pressed it.

I began rapidly pressing to close the doors.

I wanted privacy.

I wanted peace.

I was so close.

A shoe halted the doors.

They reopened just as they were going to shut.

I felt tears amass.

I felt them threaten to spill over.

Shuffling my bags, I moved over to let the stranger in.

He gave a brazen smile.

I kept my focus on the metal of the elevator doors.

He pressed a button.

Twelve floors below mine.

My fingers were back to digging into my palms.

I heard him take a deep inhale as the doors closed.

‘Indian? I know a really good place on 7th street.’

I could not care about anything this man said.

I gave the empty smile and nod I was so used to giving.

‘I’ve got an incurable itch for good Indian food lately.’

I flinched at his words.

Itch, scratch, gouge, rip, claw.

I watched as the elevator rose.

Bringing us closer to his floor.

Bringing me closer to solace.

I registered his scoff.

I ignored him entirely.

The elevator slowed.

I heard him mutter something under his breath.

It meant nothing to me.

Nothing meant anything to me except the itch.

I watched the numbers go up.

Almost there.

The doors opened.

I sighed in relief.

I pressed my finger onto the pad next to my door.

The smell of warm vanilla hit me as the door opened.

Soft yellow light flooded the open space.

I set my things down in a rush.

Grabbed a plate, piled my food onto it.

Took the bag from the pharmacy.

The itch urged me to the bathroom.

Urged me to scratch it.

To claw at it.

I ran the water, not too hot.

Dumped a generous amount of the oatmeal in.

Swirled it around, watching as the water turned milky.

I piled my hair on top of my head.

I began to undress.

My skin hissed as I removed the stockings.

The itch, free from its nylon prison.

Renewed in its demand for satisfaction.

I glanced at my calf, where the itch lingered.

There was nothing marking my skin.

No bump.

No cut.

Nothing.

Flawless, smooth skin.

My mouth was agape.

Could this have only been in my head?

I felt it.

The urge, the itch.

I turned the water off and stepped into the bath.

The water was warm and comforting.

As I settled down, the water covering my entire legs.

The itch stopped.

I reclined back and felt the tears slide down my skin.

Relief.

Pure relief.

For the first time since I had woken I felt relaxed.

I took my time, ate my food, even spent time reading.

I even spent a little time responding to emails.

By the time I got out the itch no longer occupied my mind.

I laughed it off.

Some fluke.

Some phantom itch my brain conjured.

A figment of the imagination.

Wrapped up in a robe I ended my night with a movie in bed.

I have no idea when I finally fell asleep.

I just know that I woke up to a coppery smell.

The room was dark in the morning as always.

I yawned and made my way to the bathroom.

Unaware of the trail of blood behind me.

Unaware of the blood staining my sheets.

Unaware of the hole in my leg.

I turned the light on and saw myself in the full length mirror.

Color drained from my face.

T...

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