Lucky was scratching again. She couldn't make herself stop,
although the flesh of her legs had long ago been ripped
apart by her nails. She had initially attempted to resolve
the issue by trimming them, but the itching never ceased.
Not a single part of her skin remained untouched. Everything
was bloody, red and rotten. She sat herself down on the cold
marble floor and tried to pull her knees up to her chin. The
sudden move made her body ache with pain and some of the
freshly closed wounds on her back and thighs opened and
began to bleed again, red droplets flowing down her legs.
Her legs weren't even hairy. They couldn't be, not anymore.
Several times she had scratched them so deep that chunks of
skin had gone completing missing, hair strands and roots
with them. But the itching never stopped.
The hair on Lucky's head was gone as well, plucked bald hair
by hair. She had to do it. It made scratching her scalp
easier. Even her face was covered wounds with, some of which
she had used a cheese knife to create. Her nails were never
sharp enough.
The color of the floor was invisible. How long had it been
since someone entered the room? How long had it been since
the place was properly cleaned? A thin layer of dried blood
covered most of it and the metallic stench was sharp in the
air, burning Lucky's lungs from the inside.
Even the couch was no longer white. Red, brown and dusty
grey covered it now. And lucky sat on it, feeling no comfort
from the sudden softness, and continued to scratch herself
with one hand. The other hand held an old and rusty iron
clothes hanger, which she used for her back. But nothing
satisfied her. She ripped her nails out one by one and threw
them across the room. One had slipped from between her
fingers and slipped under her legs. She didn't notice it
poking her.
She suddenly remembered. A friend had once bought her a
home-knitting kit. She ran to the drawer and took it out,
spreading its content across the floor. Sharp pins and small
hooks. She took a hook and jumped onto her couch, ignoring
the additional wounds which began to tear open. Soon it
would all be over. Soon she would be free of her pain.
Equipped with her hammer, she tried to use it to get the
hook into the ceiling. When the deed was done, she
accidentally lost her grip and the hammer fell onto the base
of her toe nail, making it rip apart from her skin. Lucky
screamed and grabbed her iron cloth hanger again, stabbing
the couch with it. The old velvet ripped so beautifully for
her.
For a moment she thought bugs were crawling all over her.
She began to scratch herself again, realizing only after it
was too late that there were no bugs at all, but merely
droplets of blood running down her skin.
Lucky climbed back on the couch. There was no one who could
help her now. She had gone to a doctor, many months before
it became so bad. He had given her a tiny bottle of cream
and told her to smear it twice a day on her wounds. A
psychologist suggested that her wounds appeared due to
unsolved issues, and they would not completely heal until
she worked them out.
Well. She had smeared the cream, but the cream didn't help.
The white stickiness just turned red with her blood. The
only thing left to do was to resolve her issues. Lucky's
salvation would come from the dirty velvet dangling from the
hook.
Lucky climbed on a stool.
Someone was knocking on the door.
Lucky grabbed the velvet firmly with both of her bloody
hands.
Someone was shouting outside. Stop? Stop!
Lucky tied the velvet around her neck and made sure it was
secure.
The door was kicked open.
Lucky jumped from the little stool.
Someone ran into the room.
But Lucky was already dead.