"Under The Skin"

The doctors say that writing this out will be good for me. It will help me, they said. It won't. I know it won't. It won't stop it, the nightmares. It won't get them out from under my skin, as they squirm about. Focus. I need to focus.

It began with my uncle. He was a reclusive man, but fond of family. He lived out in the woods and had a deep regard for nature. Though regard is probably the wrong word, considering the way he collected and stored it. His house was filled with all of nature's bounty. Flora and fauna lined the walls and shelves as personal trophies of his. Perhaps the largest of these was the collection of insects he showed off in his living area. Though if he heard you say they were insects or bugs he would likely correct you and call them arthropods. He had thousands of the things, and treated them like treasure, from beetles and ants, to spiders and butterflies. He was proud of his collection and made sure everyone knew it. The crown jewel of his collection was an abnormal Papilio antimachus, otherwise known as a Giant African Swallowtail butterfly. With a wingspan of 23 centimetres, it was truly magnificent. It didn't change my hate towards bugs however.

It was a few years ago when the event happened, I was staying at my uncle's house as my parents began a long and messy divorce. Whilst I was there, I helped him with his hobby of ‘collecting nature'. Although I wasn't overly pleased by this, instead preferring to do my own thing, I helped him anyway. With no television or radio to pass the time, it was something to do. So I helped out, collecting various plants and helping catch animals in the surrounding woods. The only thing I refused to help with was the bugs. I hate bugs. My uncle was fine with this, as they were his prized possessions after all.

I can feel them again. Crawling. Moving under the flesh.

Need to tell this. Need to finish. It started so simply. One morning my Uncle was having breakfast, and squashed a spider that was skirting across the table. Just a common garden spider, he said. It was nothing special. Over the day I noticed small changes. The bugs on display appeared to have moved around, and some had gone missing. I avoided talking about it so I didn't make Uncle angry, and so I didn't have to deal with the bugs. Day passed to no accord, and then night fell. It was late that night I heard the muffled screams. I rushed to find him sitting in the living area, covered in bugs. Every single bug in his collection had come to life, and had begun to swarm him. The light from the fireplace shone off their carapace's, turning them into strange, hellish creatures. They were crawling through his mouth, ears, eye sockets, and any other orifice. Those that couldn't get in through those ways began to burrow through his skin. As they did this, I noticed one of the creatures sat perched upon his head, the crown jewel of his collection, and a domineering presence above the other arthropods. The Giant African Swallowtail beat its wings, and then proceeded to burrow through my Uncle's skull. The sound of flesh tearing and bone cracking filled the room. I couldn't run, or scream. I could only stand and watch. Soon, all the bugs had entered his brutalised body, and fear finally took a hold of me. I ran away.

It was only after I got out and found help that I realised they had also burrowed into me. When authorities arrived, they found nothing there. No sign of my Uncle or the bugs. I began to slowly deteriorate, and soon after that I was sent off to the institute, where I currently reside. One time I tried to get them out of my left arm, ripping and tearing until I began to pull out muscle instead. Never be able to use it again they said. But they're still there. I can feel them crawling. I need to get them out. Get them out. Get out. Get out. Get them out.