SCRATCHING THAT ITCH

James Moston

Who doesn’t love a good snack? A cup of tea with biscuits (Custard Creams for me), a bag of Skittles, Doritos, or even strawberries dipped in sugar. They work a treat, especially when you’re out of sorts. Like when you have a shit day at work because your boss expects you to do their job, or your train is cancelled because of a few raindrops, or your ankles swell because you avoid your diuretics to pee less. The worst is when someone you fall for tosses you like an empty Dr Pepper. 
            ‘Bastard,’ I mutter to myself.
            Today I choose honey-roasted peanuts. Not had them since childhood. I forgot how moreish they are. The salty-sweet goodness that leaves you thirsty after a few mouthfuls. Dr Pepper comes in handy here. Once the itch is satisfied, you can gorge until the packet drains.
            I don’t get far into this bag before my breathing shallows. The bulk on my forearms reddens, breaking out in a field of bumpy hives. Instinct pulls my hands towards my mouth and throat, which claw and scratch in an effort to let more air in. It doesn’t work. My lips feel enormous against my stubby fingers, like those girls who pump themselves full of filler. Maybe he’d look at me now, I consider. My guts turn upside down and I feel like I’ll shit myself on the spot. Knowing I’m alone and that my phone was cut off days before, I try to accept that this is it. I think of the people I’ll leave behind. Like him. Then it dawns on me he won’t realise. After all, he hasn’t noticed my phone disconnecting. 
            A door bangs shut, jolting me.
            ‘Mel?’ I hear distorted behind me. ‘I couldn’t get through to … Oh shit.’
            I begin drifting to the sound of rummaging and frantic banging, but a sharp stab on my thigh pulls me back. It’s like a balloon deflating, only the air feeds back into me.
            ‘What are you playing at?’ my mother spits, slapping my cheeks to help me focus.
            Fuck, I think, remembering the spare EpiPen in the kitchen. Next time.