Skin itches and creeps. I scratch my back in my sleep. Flecks of blood on the bed-sheet where I've scratched and bled.
Scratched at my back like a cat with fleas, or the pin-like poisoned claws of domesticated vermin. There's a mouse a-chawin' on the pantry door. When he gets through there he's sure goin' to be sore. I used to love that song.
My sister used to sing along. When she wasn't reciting nursery rhymes or trying to read the cereal packet. Give her some scissors and she'd cut up the boxes. Scissors and paste, that's what kept her quiet. And scribbling on the skirting boards with thick wax crayons. Our Grandmother interpreted these hands-on activities as expressive gestures; my sister, she said, was destined to be creative. Bold, bloody and resolute, she called her.
And I was always described as shy.
Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard... and, boy, is the cupboard bare. I'm running out of food but I've yet to decide which company to order from. I like the idea of an organic-vegetable box; the produce is local and comes covered in mud. But, Tesco would be cheaper and work is currently slow.
My scalp is raw from scratching, too, so I'm thinking I might start going out at night.
Night walking with the foxes and my shadow.
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