It’s blinding. That fluorescent light, shimmering like a dance of petulant electrons. A wave of radiant denial.

I can barely see the surrounding store, shelves full of tat and garbage that looks oily beneath that unnatural glow. Rancid trash radiating its putrid stink, slick to the touch and poison in the veins.

It’s disgusting. But not as sickening as I am…

Each piece works together, resonating and becoming overwhelming, but the sights and smells aren’t the worst of it. Even the sensation of that acrid bile flowing over me can’t compare to the itching — that’s what drives my punishment.

It won’t stop.

No relief is allowed, even as he laughs, knowing victory is at hand.

My nails bite at the skin, but no matter how much I tear away, it won’t stop.

I wish I were alone. Allowed the quiet dignity of solitary suffering. I wish things were that easy.

Beyond the voices, I can also feel them. They exist within me, just as they do in the store.

In my skin.

They’re in there, and I can’t dig them out. Writhing and wriggling. A sickness I can’t get rid of. No amount of cleaning will do it. No treatment can stop something actively fighting against you. It has a life of its own. It revels in your struggle.

But I have to try.

I need to suppress this.

There has to be disinfectant in my bag. Hand sanitizer, at the very least. I’ll run to the back and use chemicals to burn away some of the itch.

Rushing to get to the office, it’s like I’m running in sand. With each step, my skin chafes, making the itch flare and my senses recede as that numbing light bleaches what little sense I still have.

I get to the door and throw it open.

Expecting the touch of cold metal, I’m shocked by the sudden heat. My skin sizzles on contact. More meat cooking in its own grease. But in the interaction, I only lose a few layers of skin. Nothing really; it barely slows me down.

Through the gloom, I search on my hands, and knees until I find it.

My backpack.

I just need hand sanitizer. I need to feel something that isn’t itching.

But as I reach in, I know that I’ve found another space where I’m not alone. There is a wriggling beneath my hands… then the biting starts.

Pulling my hands back, thousands of tiny legs touch and find space to feast in my skin; centipedes writhe up my arm, biting and prodding as they make their way to my sleeves. And then they’re in my shirt, under my clothes, and I can’t get them out. I’m thrashing and tearing and slapping. Nothing helps. They’re here and they’ll never go away.

The electronic chime of the door resonates as I clumsily flail out of the office and collide with the countertop. And as I turn, he’s here.

The Shadow.

How bold of him.

How indiscreet.

How perverse.

This is not where he belongs. This isn’t where he lives. But here he is, invading my space. Invading my thoughts and my senses.

Now he’s here. And somewhere beneath me, he’s still laughing. A far-off voice calls out, faint, but I can detect it, warbling beyond some kind of veil.

“Are you okay?”

How can I be? This is another trick.

The shadow is indistinct, wavering like the lights above. But there is fire in its eyes. The source of the hate, the heat drenching my body in sweat, and this place in stink.

Maybe if I gouge those eyes out, the itching will finally stop.