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She laid in her bed, the bright, rectangular light of her phone inches from her face keeping her up as she tries to forget. She has things to do tomorrow, responsibilities to tend to, and she dreads every second of waiting. A nervous energy fills her bones, anxious from the anticipation of the morning to come. When she scrolled, she forgot, so she indulged herself on just one more TikTok.
She had come here looking for others like her, with her affliction. It had helped at first, seeing all the other people and their long, gorgeous hair tell their inspiring stories of overcoming their own personal version of the plight. However, after a while, she could feel herself becoming anxious once more. All the pictures of them mid-recovery, with their large patches of hairless skin stretching across their heads, she wondered if that would someday be her. She was still young, she had heard that the illness only started at 12 or 11. That could be her fate, condemned to wear beanies and hats to hide the embarrassment, the damning evidence of her lack of self-control.
She fidgeted as she watched, bouncing her legs under the covers. She could feel it creeping up on her, seeping into her bones. The Itch . It sank into her arms, planting itself in her mind. It whispered to her, compelling her to move. In all the 5 years of her being plagued, she couldn’t remember it ever being this bad. It was like an energy like TV static in her extremities, like the irresistible urge to sway to a song, singing deceptively sweet in her ears. She couldn’t take it anymore. She was at her breaking point.
Raising a shaking hand, she raked her fingers through her long, raggedy hair. She could feel the split ends and uneven strands flowing through her fingers like polluted water, grease and oil latching onto her fingertips. As she looked down at her fingers, obscured in the dark of her room, she saw the loose strands of hair she had pulled from her scalp. As if on autopilot, she wrapped the strands around her fingers and rolled them between her fingers, crumpling up the filaments into a small ball. The effect was instantaneous, a bit of tension leaving her trembling limbs.
For a second, she was content. As she absent-mindedly went to pluck more from herself, she stopped. Lowering her hands to her lap, she felt shame rise within her, filling her chest and choking her like poisonous vines. She was supposed to be better than this. She was supposed to be better. The feelings only intensified as the trapped herself within her thoughts, memories of the piles of hairballs that filled the crevices of the house, of her mother’s annoyance with her and her inability to just fucking stop.
She wishes she could stop herself. She wishes she could make her family proud. She wishes she wasn’t such a disappointment. She wishes she had the motivation to do anything other than distract herself anymore. She wishes she could just be normal. She wishes she wasn’t expected to be perfect like she was in middle school. She wishes she could sleep forever. She wishes, she wishes, she wishes, she wishes-
She came back to herself with a quiet sign. Droplets carve gentle wet paths along the mountains and valleys of her face. She is filled with the buzzing energy again. She keeps her hands to herself. Shifting off of the mattress, she slowly opens the door, stepping out into the dark, familiar halls towards the kitchen. Maybe a nice midnight snack would help. Food always makes her happy. The cool linoleum greets her blanket-warmed toes as she steps on the quiet spots of the kitchen floor. She can’t have her parents waking up and catching her eating.
The pantry door gives with a firm tug, squeaking slightly as it opens, and she’s greeted with the smell of cat food and one of said cats darting through the door, as usual. The distinct sound of crinkling cellophane makes her cringe as she grabs a random snack and hurries back to her room. The silence of the night presses down on her, urging her feet to move faster towards the comfort of her room. She rushes to throw open her door as fast as possible, paranoia infesting her mind as the shadows play tricks on her eyes.
She sighs, sinking into her bed and ripping open her treat, nibbling on the sweet frosting and processed bread. As she indulges in the comfort of her food, she takes out her phone and checks the time. 3:42 AM stares back at her tauntingly from the screen as she mentally calculates. About 3 hours of sleep , she concludes. Oh well, she usually goes to sleep at like 4:30 anyways. She tucks the wrapper under her pillow with the others as she shifts under the covers, grabbing her big plush Charmander and pulling him under with her. She pulls the soft stuffed animal impossibly close to her as she clings to it tightly, squeezing, desperate. She closes her eyes and lets the darkness take her, dread seeping back into the edges of her mind as the world fades away