Entomophobia
The squeamish tickling in my brain causes me to scratch my head many times a day. I play it off as if I am thinking inquisitively. No one has to know. I walk one way but my brain tells me to go a different way. I feel like a puppet on strings. The squirmish tickling in my head will be the death of me, I swear. I must warn others of the outbreak. The possibility of the squirmish tickling happening to others. I will tell them that the tickling is deceiving. It’s not harmless, I’ll say, it’s a sign of your brain rotting away. All sense of control in your brain will disappear. I will tell them I am looking for a cure. Doctor’s don’t know what they are doing, they can’t scratch this God-forsaken continuous itch inside my head. I wake up and I go straight to my bathroom. The tickling in my head pulsing out, looking like a protruding vein. I look away and use the toilet. I stand there and the tickling and itching continues, I can’t multitask. I walk out of my bathroom and refuse to look at my face. The sunlight beams through my windows. Damnit! I forgot they don’t appreciate the sunlight. The sunlight will make it worse. It can’t get worse. I close the windows and squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t risk my disease killing me sooner. The darkness is good. I stumble upon another mirror. The protruding lumps moving, circling my skull. I can’t. I take the sheets in my house and cover all the mirrors. The sight is ungodly. I call my landlord. “I am ill. I can’t work. Therefore, I can’t pay my rent.” He asked me what illness. I avoided the question. But then. But then I realized I had to warn him, too. I’m confident my disease is contagious. “I have bugs crawling in my head.” The line was silent. “Sir, this is serious. There could be bugs in your head.” The line is still silent. He responded. Get me your rent by the end of the month or you move out. He hung up. Oh no oh no oh no. He didn’t believe me. I don’t want him to get my disease. I also can’t go to work. I can’t go in the sun. I call my mother. “Mother, I am ill.” What’s wrong, Gerald. “I have bugs crawling in my head.” … “Mother, I have bugs crawling in my head.” Gerald, you don’t have bugs crawling in your head. “I do have bugs crawling in my head. It is a disease. I fell on the ground and hit my head on a spider’s nest last week. I have bugs crawling in my head.” Gerald, I have to go. Call you soon. Oh no oh no oh no. This could be an outbreak and no one believes me. I sit on my floor and hold my legs. I will die alone in my apartment, and the bugs will go onto another person. I decided to get some water. Maybe the water will flush the bugs out of my system. But wait. Wait, the bugs are in my head, not my stomach. And water will hydrate my system. I need to dry the bugs out. Yes. That is what I will do. Dry them out. Should I eat? No. Food will make them stronger. They can’t grow. I will just stay in my apartment. God, the itching is mad. I am the host of the parasitic bugs. They feed off my brain. I sit there. I sit there. I sit there. I sit there. I sit there. I sit there.