The Skunge by Jeff Barr Page B

out almost to the tip of her nose—and was it thicker , as well?
    A memory of her mother, screaming and clawing at her own skin, tearing red furrows into the flesh as she raved about lizard-people and bugs crawling under her skin. She used to swear she could see them in the shadows, thousands of tiny red eyes following her everywhere. That was before they moved to California.
    She gritted her teeth and splashed vodka into her mouth. She leaned forward into her mirror, crossing her eyes to bring the waving thread into view. It was definitely thicker now.
    She had a moment of panicky doubt. What exactly was she playing at here? This could be anything: some kind of parasite, some exotic disease picked up off another actor. She should be at a doctor's office; hell, she should be at a hospital. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't normal, and thinking she could just pluck it and be done was a dangerous idea. She needed nurses, and drugs, and calm, competent doctors.
    Then she thought back, to other hospital visits, other doctors. Her mother screaming and thrashing in her restraints, while the doctors assured her they were doing the best they could. She recalled once storming out after a raw argument with one of the clinical psychologists, a screaming match, Sugar leaving with: If that's your best, you aren't doing enough.
    "Toughen up, Sugar," she told herself. "Suck it up and do it."
    She wound an inch and a half around one fingertip, and gave it an experimental tug. The pain was immediate and swooning. She panted a moment, wiped the palm of her other hand on her shorts, gritted her teeth, and yanked. She screamed.
    She had read somewhere that the brain has no nerve endings. Could have fooled the fuck out of me , she thought, when she regained herself. Pain-sweat sheened her brow, and she took a slug of vodka, hissing at the burn.
    She swallowed back nausea at the way it wriggled between her fingers. Just pretend it's stitches, just pretend it's stitches. It felt like the thing was knotted up inside her head, wrapped around important structures in her head. She pulled slowly, and her eyeball bulged out. Her mind offered HD quality fantasies of yanking on the thread so hard that her eyeball popped out of her head, and skittered across the floor like an ice cube.
    The mirror was magnified, supplying more detail than she wanted. The fiber was black threaded with blue, red, green, and some like transparent human hair. She tried picking it apart, first with the tips of her nails, then with the tweezers. It was like picking at a root. Tiny flakes of the stuff dusted her lap, but she was getting nowhere.
    She picked up the scissors and with her other hand, pulled the tip of the thread as far away from her as possible. The scissors sat touching the thread, ready. She took a deep breath.
    snip
    Pain exploded behind her eyes like a nova, and a klaxon-like shriek punished her ears. Her own voice. Dark fluid dripped from the severed end of the thread, spattering her legs. The burgeoning light in the apartment dimmed, like a cloud had passed in front of the sun, and she realized her vision was dimming. Another gulp from the vodka bottle. Her vision swam for a moment, then snapped back into place.
    She leaned in again. Another quarter-inch of the thing stuck out from her eye, whipping back and forth. As she watched, the snipped end took on a rough edge. It was growing back.
    She blew a lock of hair out of her face, captured the waving tip with the tweezers, and began to wind it around like spaghetti on a fork. She prepared herself, the cords in her arm standing out in stark relief, muscles flexed, arms shaking. She began to pull. More. Don't stop don't stop, keep going, don'tstopdon'tstopgogogo
    Finally, she felt it start to come: the feeling of it sliding out of her was excruciating but somehow pleasurable, like rocking a loose tooth back and forth, feeling it give, the potential to tear free with a satisfying wrench and a burst of quick