The Itch

I’ve always had an itch on the back of my left shoulder. I’m used to my arm wrapping around the front of my neck, fingernails desperate to dig into my skin. To scratch it. To itch it. 

I’ve bought bulk in plastic backscratchers and over the counter anti-itch cream. I’ve asked my friends and family, even dates, to itch my shoulder. At first, I was embarrassed of the questioning looks, then angry when they couldn’t find the right spot, or when they were afraid to touch my skin, like it was contagious. 

I went to the dermatologist, convinced I had a spot on my shoulder blade that I just couldn’t see—something growing from my skin. There was nothing there. 

That doctor sent me to the nerve doctor to get testing. They stimulate your nerves with electricity and a part of me enjoyed getting shocked. The tests were negative. 

I took more extreme measures. My land is covered in forest, so I walked out into the woods and stripped off my bra and shirt. I rubbed my naked back on trunks of trees, itching my needy flesh until I was satisfied. The bark scored angry, red scratches into my skin, blood and sap mingling together like sweat. 

When the snow came, I walked to the river on my property and jumped into the water. The ice chilled my skin, turning it purple and blue. Then I laid on the rocky shore, pressing pebbles and splinters of driftwood into my back. They pressed into me so hard they pierced the skin. 

And still, I felt the itch. 

In the quiet of my home, I tried heat instead of cold, using a mirror and tongs to press smoldering coals into my shoulder blade.  

And though my back was an angry mosaic of scabs and scorches, the itching persisted. 

So, tonight, I walked to the edge of my land, usually a tourist destination for photos—and I contemplated killing myself. The constant, unending, itching was torture. 

“Sometimes, the bees know more than we do.”

I turned around, eyes finding a woman with moon-reflecting eyes standing beside me. She had long, blond hair and was wearing a shimmering, black dress that seemed to move with the breeze. 

“The bees?” 

Where did she come from? I didn’t know. I could only pay attention to the itch. 

The woman smiled, eyes flashing. “You were saying- you’d tried everything for your shoulder. But you haven’t asked the bees.” 

Had I been talking? I couldn’t remember. 

“Right. I’ll go ask them.” 

The woman smiled, all teeth. “I’m sure they’ll have a solution.”

×

I slept fitfully that night, thoughts buzzing around my head, the itchy spot on my shoulder blade tingling. I dreamt of honey coating my back, cooling and thick, then forming two wings made of honeycomb. 

At sunrise, I walked into my forest and listened for a hive.

My eyes tracked across broken tree branches and blood-splattered trunks while I walked, but I didn’t stop, not even to itch my shoulder on some nettles that were perfect and ripe—brambled thorns sticking out in every direction.

I crossed a creek, almost about to give up, when I heard the buzzing. I followed it, scrambling over roots and prying my way through bushes. 

I crunched through dried and withered grass—and then I saw it. The hive was perfectly situated inside a rotting log, the bees flying in and out through cracks in the wood. I panted as my shoulder burned with the itch. 

I cleared my throat, my voice rasping. “Hello, bees? I need your help.”

I collapsed onto my knees, holding my head in my hands. My voice came out in a low whisper. “My shoulder is so, so itchy. I’ve tried everything. Please. Please make it better. Please.”

Tears trickled down my face as the buzzing grew louder and louder.

We will make it better, said a thousand, small voices. 

I smiled, finally feeling joy, as I watched the bees spiral out of the log. They landed on my arms, my face, my hair, my shirt, and then climbed inside it, covering my back and torso.

Then, I felt the stingers. Like a thousand, small needles over every part of my skin. I opened my eyes and looked up at the sun, glad that the bee’s sacrifice could finally get rid of my itch. 

But then, the stinging got worse. I opened my mouth to scream, and the bees flew inside my mouth. I choked on the insects, patting my shirt as I realized—they weren’t stinging me. They were burrowing into me. 

I screamed as the bees crawled inside my eyes, my ears, my nose, my throat. I coughed up blood as they burrowed into my pores, tiny legs scratching pathways into my veins. 

The world grew dark as I sunk to the ground, convulsing in pain. As I lost consciousness, I realized the itch was gone.

×

When I awoke, it was night, and the bees had vanished. I spit out pollen and then wiped my nose on my arm. I blinked as I realized I felt better than I ever had before. 

I stood up and lost my balance, tipping over, placing my hands on a tree. My head spun as I caught my breath—and realized there was a weight on my back. Coming from my shoulder blades. 

I reached my arm around my neck, fingers tentatively reaching out. When I touched it, I hissed, pain ricocheting down my back as liquid dribbled out of open wounds. I flexed my muscles and looked out behind me, blinking at the two iridescent wings sticking out of my shoulders. 

“Wait!” I called into the forest, searching the darkness for the bees. “Don’t leave me like this!” 

A buzzing whispered through the wind. 

Now you belong to us.

I brought my finger to my mouth and tasted honey.