Itch started as a tingle. More of a thought of an itch than an itch that would be.

A blueprint of an itch.

Itch had dreamed of being the tickle on the end of your nose. The one that would make people stop everything they were doing. With a nose tingle, a person is near paralzyed. Watery eyes, mild convulsions. A need to tell everyone exactly what is happening to them. Truth serum this should be. It would be a revolution. Imagine the shock when informants blab top secrets after 24 hours of near but not completed sneeze.

A complete state of confusion. The closest thing to that is one of two scenarios:

A bathroom stall with no toilet roll AFTER you have begun your business.

And, standing in the automatic check out line at the supermarket and an item not scanning.

The 7 year itch folk, they were the long-haulers. The seasoned pros. They knew all the tricks. Worked hard to get where they were and they were a hard group to get to.

His pal, Roberts, he worked in vice, they got all the bad sorts there. The rough ones, the loose ones, the resistant to antibiotic ones.

Itch had aspirations, lofty goals, but Itch was one of those, run of the mill, normal types. Nondescript. There in a moment and gone in the next.

Unless you got lucky and found yourself sent to somewhere in the middle back. Just out of reach. No matter how hard they contorted their limbs, they just couldn't find peace.

In those moments itches were puppeteers. They dangled the humans on nerve-ending rope. It's the result an itch aims for. It's what they taught at Itch grade school 101.

An itch should be annoying enough to be recognised but not soooo annoying that you get scratched out immediately.

1 sec scratches are the worst kind. Five of those and you're fired.

Itch had two already. He/she (how do itches identify?) needed one that stuck.

Itch closed his eyes as he felt the hairs in his vicinity bristle. The skin pocked in goosebumps all around.

His end was coming. It had been fun while it lasted.

Though he knew what was about to take place, that didn't stop him digging in. Hoping to hang around a little bit longer. Just a few more seconds.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi...

He knew, though, that he was but a mere irritant. He was not supposed to stay. Cease not persist was the morning mantra.

He would be back again, he thought. And this time it would be very different indeed. If he'd done well, maybe he could get promoted to skin conditions, or be called to the scene of an insect bite or burn. Maybe he'd partner with a scab.

Something infectious, maybe.

And with that, as the very first touch of the fingertip connected with him/her, he/she was at one with the universe and the bliss was overwhelming. Euphoric.

Albeit temporary.