Horror Flash Fiction: Scabs

Scabs

I like to pick my scabs.

 I’ve done so ever since I was a child. My mother used to slap my hand away when it drifted towards my scabby knees, telling me that it would only make it bigger and take longer to heal. Though when I was six, I took no notice and did so when she wasn’t around. I used to love the scabs that were bumpy, that were rough to the touch and bubbled when you push down on them. They were the ones you could really get your nails under the sides of and pick away at, the ones that tore your skin ever so slightly more each time they peeled off.

Now I’m older, I don’t get scabs very often; so I was quite shocked and secretly delighted I got another one after falling off my bike on the way to work. It was late in the evening, while I was watching TV that my hand reminded me of it as I rubbed my elbow, its coarse, crumbly feel contrasting against my smooth skin. I had a habit of biting my nails, so I struggled to get a good grip on it. Once I had it under my bitten nail, I flicked up the edge of the scab; shivering as the sting wisped up my arm. I pinched the dried skin and pulled gently. As it peeled backwards, the vulnerable, bloody pink flesh underneath was revealed. I poked it gingerly, still pinching its protector between my thumb and fingers; taking a sharp intake of breath as blood seeped out in droplets. I examined the scab with a weird sort of gratification. It was big, much bigger than I thought it was.

Yet this wasn’t the whole scab.

I placed it carefully on my knee and felt the prickling wound once more. The sides of the scab is still stuck around the edge of the wound, sharp and jagged. I began to pick them off. However, one was stubborn. I gripped it with the tips of my fingers and pulled.

Too hard.  

The scab ripped itself up my arm, splitting my skin all the way up to my shoulder, getting wider as it grew.  I smiled, I loved this part. I tugged the length of skin across my chest, under my shirt and down one side. Blood poured down my body, sticking my shirt to the wound and binding itself to me as it clotted. The length of skin had grown to be the size of A4 paper and was deep enough to put the tip of my finger in. I lifted up my crusty shirt above my stomach, and tore the skin off; relishing in the sensation of my skin ripping apart, pulling away from my muscles and splitting off at the end.

I sat back in my chair, holding the sheet of skin with a dazed expression. I felt content. I felt satisfied. I felt at ease.

I like to pick my scabs.