My skin itches. Day and night. It feels like there’s bugs crawling under my skin, but there’s nothing there. It’s been like this for as long as I can remember.
I remember…one time the itch was so bad and intense that I scratched and scratched until my skin started to break, and I kept clawing and clawing only for the feeling to remain, and my skin to redden more and more as I kept clawing and gouging away at my flesh, blood vessels breaking under angry, reddened, and bruised skin.
And still, the mark continued to itch and writhe as if it were alive, and I kept going and going, like I knew that if I just got down to the muscle and sinew-covered bone of my body, the itch would finally be satisfied. I desperately wanted the feeling to go away, but even when I scratched bone, the itch was still there.
I still feel the itch. The writhing. Like it’s alive, and maybe it is. Maybe it’s meant to do this. This is something I’ve come to terms with. In fact, I’ve grown used to it, and I’m reminded of my shameful actions of the past, proven by the marred and scarred skin. The Mark, on the other hand…It’s Mark remains ever perfect, despite my imperfections. I will reach true enlightenment soon enough, and I will reach and meet the True Assimilation. I will be…perfect in It’s eyes. I will be perfection incarnate.
