One day his skin started itching. He was walking towards home on the four lane, kicking up gravel and wishing the sun would stop shining. It was hot. Too hot. Sweat rolled down his back like the endless cars that kept flying by on down the road. He hated it all. The beaming sun. The traffic. The glare and the sound. But, most of all, he hated the way his t-shirt clung to him, how the logo of some long forgotten band stuck to his chest like a brand. It was unbearable.
Suddenly, he couldn't take it any longer. His thoughts were racing. He was dizzy from the heat and the day. His skin was on fire and itching all over as if some mad parasite were eating at his very bones. He ripped off his shirt and threw it over his shoulder, lined with bloody marks that his fingernails had traced. The old t-shirt felt like a sack of bricks as it hung there, wringing wet and dripping, leaving a trail of hot sweat and blood behind him in the dirt. He threw it to the ground, unable to bare its burden, a cloud of dust blooming behind him.
He dug his fingers into his arms, his neck as the feeling crawled inside of his skin. The heels of his feet were on fire, alive with this sensation. He wished it would die. He shook off his dirt caked boots one by one, yanking hard until he ripped the laces right from the leather that had seen so much earth and ware. He tossed them aside recklessly, hurling the boots towards the oncoming traffic. Horns blared in the air but he didn't even notice. All he could hear, see or feel was the itch that borrowed deeper into his body with every passing second.
The fabric of his jeans constricted every nerve. He ripped off every shred of clothes that remained and threw them out into the wind. He was stark and pale, covered with freckles, and he was naked like the day he was born. The taboo didn't phase him as he walked along the highway receiving stares filled with astonishment, disgust and laughter from passerby. He was a spectacle, a traveling sideshow without a circus, no ring master, only subject to the excruciating tingling that tortured his skin and nothing else.
The air was hot and thick around him, swarming like bees, stinging every inch of his body. His fingernails continued to scrape wildly away. The flesh on his arms began to feel dry, papery even. He felt air begin to get closer to his muscle, his bones. The skin on his body was shedding, peeling away. It was relief, sweet and longed for. The crazed feeling began to ease as his skin gave way to reveal the crimson world beneath the surface. He was walking muscle and sinew, tendon and vein.
With his arms outstretched, reaching to the sky, to the sun that he had hated with a blinding fury only moments ago, he watched with ecstasy as his muscles twisted away like ribbons in the wind until he was bone and organ, a walking cadaver. But he was alive with a fire he hadn't felt since the day he lost his job. Since the day he couldn't feed his family or afford his home. Since he ended up on the street alone. No future. Trapped in an invisible box called poverty.
Eventually, all that was left of him was his bones. People gawked at the skeleton beyond their window, feared this creature, this life without substance, walking on the side of the four lane. He was the bane of society. And yet they pitied him too. But this was his greatest moment of joy. He had let the world, his body, and his life go and was crumbling, turning to dust in the wind. No more thinking. All would end.
Suddenly, he couldn't take it any longer. His thoughts were racing. He was dizzy from the heat and the day. His skin was on fire and itching all over as if some mad parasite were eating at his very bones. He ripped off his shirt and threw it over his shoulder, lined with bloody marks that his fingernails had traced. The old t-shirt felt like a sack of bricks as it hung there, wringing wet and dripping, leaving a trail of hot sweat and blood behind him in the dirt. He threw it to the ground, unable to bare its burden, a cloud of dust blooming behind him.
He dug his fingers into his arms, his neck as the feeling crawled inside of his skin. The heels of his feet were on fire, alive with this sensation. He wished it would die. He shook off his dirt caked boots one by one, yanking hard until he ripped the laces right from the leather that had seen so much earth and ware. He tossed them aside recklessly, hurling the boots towards the oncoming traffic. Horns blared in the air but he didn't even notice. All he could hear, see or feel was the itch that borrowed deeper into his body with every passing second.
The fabric of his jeans constricted every nerve. He ripped off every shred of clothes that remained and threw them out into the wind. He was stark and pale, covered with freckles, and he was naked like the day he was born. The taboo didn't phase him as he walked along the highway receiving stares filled with astonishment, disgust and laughter from passerby. He was a spectacle, a traveling sideshow without a circus, no ring master, only subject to the excruciating tingling that tortured his skin and nothing else.
The air was hot and thick around him, swarming like bees, stinging every inch of his body. His fingernails continued to scrape wildly away. The flesh on his arms began to feel dry, papery even. He felt air begin to get closer to his muscle, his bones. The skin on his body was shedding, peeling away. It was relief, sweet and longed for. The crazed feeling began to ease as his skin gave way to reveal the crimson world beneath the surface. He was walking muscle and sinew, tendon and vein.
With his arms outstretched, reaching to the sky, to the sun that he had hated with a blinding fury only moments ago, he watched with ecstasy as his muscles twisted away like ribbons in the wind until he was bone and organ, a walking cadaver. But he was alive with a fire he hadn't felt since the day he lost his job. Since the day he couldn't feed his family or afford his home. Since he ended up on the street alone. No future. Trapped in an invisible box called poverty.
Eventually, all that was left of him was his bones. People gawked at the skeleton beyond their window, feared this creature, this life without substance, walking on the side of the four lane. He was the bane of society. And yet they pitied him too. But this was his greatest moment of joy. He had let the world, his body, and his life go and was crumbling, turning to dust in the wind. No more thinking. All would end.
