His whole body was itching—relentlessly, maddeningly. It started with a few harmless spots along his arms, something he thought was just dry skin. He tried lotion, then antihistamines. “Probably just an allergy,” he told himself, waving it off with the kind of denial that feels like control. But within days, the itch turned cruel. It wasn’t just skin-deep anymore—it burned, it nagged, it never let up.
At night, it became unbearable. He’d wake up scratching his arms, his legs, even his torso until the skin turned red and raw. There were moments in the dark when he thought he could feel things moving under his skin. He didn’t tell anyone that part.
He stopped wearing short sleeves. The rash had spread—angry red lines creeping up his wrists, around his waist, between his fingers. He’d stare at his reflection, frustrated and tired, wondering what the hell was wrong with him. He googled symptoms until the screen blurred. Eczema? Psoriasis? Some rare immune disorder?
A week later, he gave in and went to the clinic.
The nurse took one look and called in the doctor. After a few questions and a brief examination, the answer came with unnerving ease.
“It’s scabies,” the doctor said.
He blinked. “What?”
“Scabies. Caused by mites. Very common. Highly contagious. But easily treatable.” She spoke gently, as if expecting resistance.
Mites. Living things. Inside his skin. The word echoed in his mind like a horror story. He felt sick.
He left the clinic with a tube of cream and a long list of instructions: wash everything in hot water, disinfect the bedding, treat any close contacts. The shame hit him harder than the diagnosis. He hadn’t told anyone he was suffering—now he had to tell them they might be infected too.
That night, he stood in the shower for what felt like an hour, scrubbing until his skin felt raw. He applied the treatment and crawled into clean sheets, praying for relief. It would take a few days, the doctor had said. Maybe longer. But eventually, the itching would stop.
And it did. Slowly. Gradually. The nights became easier. His skin began to heal.
But he never forgot that feeling—of not being in control of his own body, of something so small disrupting his entire life. It humbled him. It changed how he saw health, discomfort, even silence. Because sometimes, it’s not just an allergy. Sometimes your body is trying to tell you something you can’t afford to ignore.
