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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Horror / Scary
- Published: 08/30/2013
Itch
"Excuse me, on which end of the carriage did you get that?"
On a backdrop of swiftly passing trees and sunny barley fields sit two men on a fairly busy train; Fletcher, and opposite him a stranger he has yet to notice, and yet to acknowledge his simple question. Fletcher is in his 40's, with greying hair which drops just in front of his glasses and a deep vertical scar directly between his eyebrows. His left hand is stretched around his knee which pokes his leg out into the aisle, and overall he seems to have a nervous disposition, clutching his coffee with his shaking right hand and his arched elbow resting stiffly on the table separating them. Directly in front of him is a man a few generations older, with thin white hair, a newspaper which he has returned to being casually indulged in, and a more distinguished dress sense of suit and shirt as opposed to Fletchers baggy green camo gear accompanied by an array of badges. Fletcher lifts the cardboard coffee cup to his face slowly and un-steadily, takes a sip small enough to dissolve on the lips, but as he puts it down more abruptly, a scowling twitch emerges on his face with such focus on the floor that he may be looking through it. Then, without lifting his drooping head, he locks eyes on the unwitting person before him, and with his hands tensing slightly tighter around his cup and knee, he begins blowing light puffs of air from the side of his mouth as the train gradually begins to slow down.
As the train is beginning to grind to a halt the crunch of friction on the tracks increases, as does the intense look on Fletchers face. The other passengers stand and rush towards all doors, and as some carelessly hit his foot as they walk through the aisle, his breathing also is aggravated and sharpens. There is a strained pause of silence as the train stops completely, Fletchers breathing is audible for everyone to hear as he gets quite a few looks from passengers. This brief moment is interrupted by the hiss of the train doors opening, and the sound of stomping and talking which quickly drowns him out.
The carriage is nearly empty with only a handful of people spread over it, and as the platform clears of stamping feet then again a silence falls- apart from Fletchers now exhausting breathing, moments pass as a few passengers take notice of this. Eventually the stranger lifts his head, casually folds his paper, and having been aware of Fletchers eerie behaviour he looks at him unphased.
"Sir is everything alri-" The man is interrupted by the loud hiss of the doors right beside them which appears to startle them both, Fletcher stops his loud breaths as the stranger continues, "... Are you alright?"
"I got an itch." Fletcher responds, looking down again, his face still scowling with the right side now twitching erratically.
"And what's that have to do with me?" The man looks directly at the twitching, which Fletcher notices.
"Nothing. Don't dare scratch it." The man smiles, but is puzzled.
"...Do you think I got on this train to scratch strangers?" He asks almost laughing, leaning forward with intrigue.
"I don't know. Don't touch it." Fletcher at this point is grabbing his knee still with his left hand, and almost hunched over out of his seat, and looks to be seriously struggling with his twitch, the man sits back and looks at him with a touch more concern, Fletcher coughs out "It's important."
"Well... Why's that?" Fletchers worrying behaviour has now completely removed the mans short term grin; "You can scratch it."
"It has to go away by itself." Fletcher sits up a bit and looks quite disgusted by the mans question, his twitches have calmed slightly but he's now also squeezing his coffee cup to the point it's nearly spilling over.
"Listen, why not let go of the cup, calm down, and with that same paw, touch your face, it's right there;" Everyone on the carriage is now looking in silence at this situation, the man still does not seem unsettled, and at this point seems frustrated; "Hey c'mon now why don't-"
"Discipline!" Fletcher barks out with a fierce look into the eyes of the man, resulting in half muted gasps from the passengers; "And you wouldn't understand! What do you do, just scratch all your problems away? I know how to scratch my face, sir! Every night I sleep with a ticking clock right beside my head and it drives me crazy!" Fletcher hunches over grabbing the top of his head, the man now looks even more confused, and finally unsettled as Fletcher sits back up; "Do you know why? Because one night I heard it, and I was a coward, like you, like all of you, and I yanked those batteries out! The next day I felt I had lost my soul, like I was no longer human. Ever since, every night, right by my head, I choose it, all I hear is ticking, tick, tick, tick, and I think how a real man can let it go, but the more you hear it, the more you want to. Tick, tick, tick, and it's no longer a sound, you believe you can hear every screw in it, every nut, vibrating with each tick, always fighting against you but you gotta fight back! The gears in it, twisting and turning, ripping at each other, after a while they don't sound like 5 gears, they sound like 9, then they may as well be a thousand, and that's all you can see when you sleep! These twisting plastic pieces of shit in this handheld travel clock become metal ferris wheels in my nightmares!" Fletcher at this point is breathing hard, and leaning on the table looking at the man dead in the eyes, who gulps.
"... You're not alright." The man simply says, and unfolds his newspaper.
Fletcher sits back completely in his chair, his face tilted backwards against the window, looking sideways at the man, there is complete silence except for the slight buzz of the train slowing down for the next stop. Fletcher's no longer twitching, is still quite out of breath, and goes on; "But the coffee machines back there. Seeing as you couldn't find out, for yourself."
"Well thanks;" The man looks up with a blank expression, "That's all I asked." The man folds his paper, and stands up, beside the doors; "But this is my stop."
Fletcher closes his eyes, and regains his breath, his head still right back against the window, and the train begins to eventually come to a stop. The remaining passengers are relieved but anxious to get off, and are on the platform before the doors fully open. Fletcher gets up, carelessly tosses his coffee to the side, and walks in the other direction as several people enter.
A couple walk in and walk past the table Fletcher sat at to sit in the middle, a man with a dog goes the other direction to the corner of the carriage, a mother and 2 children sit on the tall seats beside the window, one man, sits down at the table right beside Fletchers. He opens up his laptop bag and brings out his computer, taking off his coat to start typing. Fletcher slowly walks down the carriage, and in one sudden motion, almost without seeing the man, swiftly sits down across from him, and sits down his fresh coffee.
His eye begins to twitch.
Itch(Miceal O'Reilly)
Itch
"Excuse me, on which end of the carriage did you get that?"
On a backdrop of swiftly passing trees and sunny barley fields sit two men on a fairly busy train; Fletcher, and opposite him a stranger he has yet to notice, and yet to acknowledge his simple question. Fletcher is in his 40's, with greying hair which drops just in front of his glasses and a deep vertical scar directly between his eyebrows. His left hand is stretched around his knee which pokes his leg out into the aisle, and overall he seems to have a nervous disposition, clutching his coffee with his shaking right hand and his arched elbow resting stiffly on the table separating them. Directly in front of him is a man a few generations older, with thin white hair, a newspaper which he has returned to being casually indulged in, and a more distinguished dress sense of suit and shirt as opposed to Fletchers baggy green camo gear accompanied by an array of badges. Fletcher lifts the cardboard coffee cup to his face slowly and un-steadily, takes a sip small enough to dissolve on the lips, but as he puts it down more abruptly, a scowling twitch emerges on his face with such focus on the floor that he may be looking through it. Then, without lifting his drooping head, he locks eyes on the unwitting person before him, and with his hands tensing slightly tighter around his cup and knee, he begins blowing light puffs of air from the side of his mouth as the train gradually begins to slow down.
As the train is beginning to grind to a halt the crunch of friction on the tracks increases, as does the intense look on Fletchers face. The other passengers stand and rush towards all doors, and as some carelessly hit his foot as they walk through the aisle, his breathing also is aggravated and sharpens. There is a strained pause of silence as the train stops completely, Fletchers breathing is audible for everyone to hear as he gets quite a few looks from passengers. This brief moment is interrupted by the hiss of the train doors opening, and the sound of stomping and talking which quickly drowns him out.
The carriage is nearly empty with only a handful of people spread over it, and as the platform clears of stamping feet then again a silence falls- apart from Fletchers now exhausting breathing, moments pass as a few passengers take notice of this. Eventually the stranger lifts his head, casually folds his paper, and having been aware of Fletchers eerie behaviour he looks at him unphased.
"Sir is everything alri-" The man is interrupted by the loud hiss of the doors right beside them which appears to startle them both, Fletcher stops his loud breaths as the stranger continues, "... Are you alright?"
"I got an itch." Fletcher responds, looking down again, his face still scowling with the right side now twitching erratically.
"And what's that have to do with me?" The man looks directly at the twitching, which Fletcher notices.
"Nothing. Don't dare scratch it." The man smiles, but is puzzled.
"...Do you think I got on this train to scratch strangers?" He asks almost laughing, leaning forward with intrigue.
"I don't know. Don't touch it." Fletcher at this point is grabbing his knee still with his left hand, and almost hunched over out of his seat, and looks to be seriously struggling with his twitch, the man sits back and looks at him with a touch more concern, Fletcher coughs out "It's important."
"Well... Why's that?" Fletchers worrying behaviour has now completely removed the mans short term grin; "You can scratch it."
"It has to go away by itself." Fletcher sits up a bit and looks quite disgusted by the mans question, his twitches have calmed slightly but he's now also squeezing his coffee cup to the point it's nearly spilling over.
"Listen, why not let go of the cup, calm down, and with that same paw, touch your face, it's right there;" Everyone on the carriage is now looking in silence at this situation, the man still does not seem unsettled, and at this point seems frustrated; "Hey c'mon now why don't-"
"Discipline!" Fletcher barks out with a fierce look into the eyes of the man, resulting in half muted gasps from the passengers; "And you wouldn't understand! What do you do, just scratch all your problems away? I know how to scratch my face, sir! Every night I sleep with a ticking clock right beside my head and it drives me crazy!" Fletcher hunches over grabbing the top of his head, the man now looks even more confused, and finally unsettled as Fletcher sits back up; "Do you know why? Because one night I heard it, and I was a coward, like you, like all of you, and I yanked those batteries out! The next day I felt I had lost my soul, like I was no longer human. Ever since, every night, right by my head, I choose it, all I hear is ticking, tick, tick, tick, and I think how a real man can let it go, but the more you hear it, the more you want to. Tick, tick, tick, and it's no longer a sound, you believe you can hear every screw in it, every nut, vibrating with each tick, always fighting against you but you gotta fight back! The gears in it, twisting and turning, ripping at each other, after a while they don't sound like 5 gears, they sound like 9, then they may as well be a thousand, and that's all you can see when you sleep! These twisting plastic pieces of shit in this handheld travel clock become metal ferris wheels in my nightmares!" Fletcher at this point is breathing hard, and leaning on the table looking at the man dead in the eyes, who gulps.
"... You're not alright." The man simply says, and unfolds his newspaper.
Fletcher sits back completely in his chair, his face tilted backwards against the window, looking sideways at the man, there is complete silence except for the slight buzz of the train slowing down for the next stop. Fletcher's no longer twitching, is still quite out of breath, and goes on; "But the coffee machines back there. Seeing as you couldn't find out, for yourself."
"Well thanks;" The man looks up with a blank expression, "That's all I asked." The man folds his paper, and stands up, beside the doors; "But this is my stop."
Fletcher closes his eyes, and regains his breath, his head still right back against the window, and the train begins to eventually come to a stop. The remaining passengers are relieved but anxious to get off, and are on the platform before the doors fully open. Fletcher gets up, carelessly tosses his coffee to the side, and walks in the other direction as several people enter.
A couple walk in and walk past the table Fletcher sat at to sit in the middle, a man with a dog goes the other direction to the corner of the carriage, a mother and 2 children sit on the tall seats beside the window, one man, sits down at the table right beside Fletchers. He opens up his laptop bag and brings out his computer, taking off his coat to start typing. Fletcher slowly walks down the carriage, and in one sudden motion, almost without seeing the man, swiftly sits down across from him, and sits down his fresh coffee.
His eye begins to twitch.
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