The person had bloody fingers and their head down low from shame because they had done it again. They tried to fight the urge, but simply couldn’t. That one tiny, microscopic piece of skin that no one would notice was too much to leave alone. It had to be picked. They sat for a few minutes, trying to tear the piece of skin away from the finger. They didn’t notice what they were doing, of course. They were sitting in class while the teacher droned on and on about the ‘whatever they were talking about.’ They felt a quick sting of pain and quickly looked down to inspect that area. They let out a sad sigh at the sight. They did it again. They got up and went to the tissue box, figuring it would be a good idea to soak up the blood springing from their finger. They wrapped it around and prayed no one would notice. They knew that the shower that night would hurt. Water dripping down their fingers always tingled and hurt. They wondered why and how they developed this compulsion. They didn’t paint their fingernails for fear it would draw attention to the dried up blood and healing scabs on their fingers. They strayed away from germ-x too, only using it when necessary. In the next class, their fingers unknowingly picked at the flaking skin on their lips. The air hitting the new layer of skin stung a little bit. That was the signal. They had done it again. Within a few minutes, their fingers were already at work again on the skin around the cuticles.

When they got home from school and took off their socks, their fingers were going to the toes. They tore skin away from the toes and caused small amounts of pain. The person didn’t care. It soothed them, almost like a mother singing a lullaby to a crying child. They kept going, fully aware of the damage being done. But they were in the safety of their bedroom, and they unleashed the monster. The monster craved skin. It wouldn’t stop until it had its fill.

As they were lying in bed that night, they couldn’t stop their hands from roaming their body. It had become a nightly routine now. For about ten minutes every night before bed, they let the monster out once more. One more time and he would be soothed until the next day.
That morning they looked at their body in the mirror. They saw the damage and felt ashamed at what they had done. Then they spotted it. That one tiny, microscopic piece of skin that no one would notice because of the clothes concealing it. But the person did. They pleaded with the monster, but the monster wasn’t having it. It laughed and mocked them. They gave in a let him do his work. A few minutes later they looked in the mirror and saw the tiny bumps of acne in their forehead. They grabbed the needle and picked. Then they took their fingers and squeezed until every drop of pus came out of the pimple. They looked at their reflection in shame. They saw the blood slowly oozing out of the open pimple. They grabbed a piece of toilet paper and began to dab at the blood. They put antibiotic ointment on the area and began to get ready for school.

The same thing happened everyday without failure. The skin their body had tried so hard to replenish was getting torn away from the body and down onto the desk below. They once again looked down at their fingers in shame. I had done it again.