The itch. It begins behind the eyes and spreads. Small at first, it grows, moving. Behind the ears? Noone can tell. It moves like a fire, infecting everything. Downwards it goes, and it brings with it madness. The knife falls on open flesh. Dig it out, Dig it out! Take the itch away. Down both arms, blood flows freely. Dig it out. The eyes itch and the face crawls and the arms bleed. Somehow, the feet itch too. Feet moving on their own, taking you places where what happens is beyond what you know, yet still you Dig it out. Awake in front of doors, hand on the handle, with the itch behind your eyes. Vision fades as the feet walk onwards. Hands turn into weapons, but you turn them on yourself. Bloody feet walk the path, warped hands clasp the doorknob, and the broken mind begs you to Dig it out. It's still behing the eyes. It's still in the arms, it's still moving the feet. The mouth's itch turns to a burn as you scream, the deep, broken voice rings out. The darkness swallows it up. Further behing the sunken eyes, the mind screams with you. Dig it out. Dig it out. The chattering of the mind begins a bigger itch. The weapons turn again, and dig out the itch from behind the eyes.