This one is more like a nightmare than a story, but make no mistake – it's most definitely fiction. I would implore you to enjoy it, but I know you won't. I didn't while I was writing it. The best I can say is: endure it. It's sick, it's icky, but it all ends quickly. ~ JH
It never occurred to me to wash the sheets. I don't mean recently. I mean ever. So it shouldn't have come as a surprise when the itching started. At first, it was my ear, just above the lobe. I wrote it off as perhaps a stray hair that had found its way where it didn't belong. Then it was my back, right at the center in between the shoulder blades. I did think I was bitten that time. But it certainly wasn't the first time, and I'd never died of a bug bite before. So I scratched the spot as best I could and rolled over to go back to sleep. But sleep would not come again this night. As soon as my face hit the pillow, the itching began again, creeping down from my scalp to my neck, across my chest, and down one arm. I scratched at my skin urgently, violently, doubtlessly drawing my own blood. After a brief respite, I felt the too-familiar burning, itchy feeling at my waist and then down the front of both my legs. I scratched and scratched until my skin hung in shreds. Literally. And then I knew. It was time to wash the sheets.