Prose, Unbound

The Itch

“No,” I said. They were out of their fucking minds if they thought I would actually agree to their request, but I was perfectly in my right mind to tell them to go to hell.

~~~

Don’t get me wrong. I acquiesce — a lot. I don’t like to cause trouble. I don’t like to rock the boat. Confrontation causes an allergic reaction and makes me itchy all over like when I rub up against poison ivy. Sometimes, I get a little fidgety, a little itchy, from chafing against conflict’s oiliness. 

Sometimes, a rash breaks out. Sometimes, I lose a little time recovering and come to with oddities. One time there was a deep scratch running along the inside of my bicep. One time there was a split upper lip. One time there was a busted knuckle on my right hand. One time there was some blood on my shirt but no obvious wound it could have come from.

~~~

“It’s simple. The answer is no,” I said, scratching at a spot just below my elbow while a blooming redness raced across the right side of my chest.

I really do try to be a decent person, but sometimes, people just don’t fucking listen.

Featured image by eberhard grossgasteiger on Unsplash

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