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The tiny bites covered her stomach, racing along her back and even straggling out to join the accompany of bruises and scrapes adorning her arms.
What was it about the insatiable need to scratch the irritation? Finally, giving in, she raked her purple-coated fingernails over pail skin.
And it grew worse, the need to quiet each bite,
In a pause, she glanced up at the mirror. A rose colored splotch was rising to the surface of her skin. Just positioned below her belly button.
Slowly, the color spread; staining each place her hands had met flesh.
Lines appeared in red along her back, and in 4 lined crosses on her ribs.
She could hear the deep thunk as her heart dropped into her stomach. Twisting, her vision blurred, bumps began to rise along her arms and she ripped down her shirt, tucking away the insect bites, self-inflicted scratch marks, and emotional terror.
Watching her own eyes, she sneaked a glance at the lightening mark.
In an ill attempt at comfort she noted how the scratches were nothing like the bruises years before.
Handprint proclaiming owner ship. A map of the crime.
The incessant itch was gone, replaced by unwelcome memories.
Washing her hands she wished she hadn’t eaten the ice cream. It twisted in her stomach, after the day of one egg, a sandwich and water. She vowed to do better next time. She walked away from the mirror, but not everything that had happened.