Out, Damned Spot! Chapter 1

How It Started.

(AUTHOR’S NOTE

Before you sink your teeth into this, I’m only going to say it once: this one doesn’t ease you in. It starts small, a harmless little spot on a toe, and then it keeps going until everything is raw, bleeding, and completely fucking ruined.

If you’ve got a weak stomach, if you scare easily, or if you still have any lingering faith in humanity… seriously, close the tab. Save yourself.)

Content Warning: Extreme body horror, graphic self-harm, strong language, intense psychological distress, and descriptions of foul odors and infection. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

---

(Not scared off yet? Bold move. Let’s dive in.)

I don’t know what happened, or why it happened to me.

I don’t even know what caused it.

All I know is that it started as a spot on my foot.

I first noticed it getting out of the shower, a small grayish-green spot just below the toenail of my big toe on my left foot. It scared the shit out of me because I thought it was a bug; I smashed my foot against the shower door to try to knock it off. After attempting to shake it free and drown it under the faucet in the tub, I looked more closely and found it in my skin. I don’t know when I got it, but once I realized it wasn’t a bug, I didn’t pay it any mind. After all, it was just a small spot on my skin, right? Probably something that rubbed off from my sock.

After drying off and getting dressed (stopping again to give my toe another examination, maybe it was a freckle I never noticed before?), I made my way down to the bus stop. Mrs. Adkins was there as usual, getting ready for her Wednesday grocery visit. We talked a bit, she told me about her cats and how her niece was about my age and needed a good man.

She lifted her nose and sniffed the air, squinting a bit as if catching wind of something foul. I didn’t smell it at first, but shortly after, it hit me —a sharp, acidic smell, almost vinegary, but with a hint of cheese to it.

“It rained last night,” she said. “Must be runoff from the trash cans in the alley.”

The bus pulled up, and I left Mrs. Adkins to sit in the lovely aroma of eau du trash can broth. Even with the windows down on the bus, I could still smell the faint aroma of whatever that was hanging on my clothes. I hoped it wouldn’t linger too long because I knew my fellow engineers in the cube farm would give me shit if I came in smelling like that.

The smell didn’t go away; it seemed to grow the closer we got to work.

When I was a kid, one of the farmers in my small hometown switched to an organic fertilizer that made downtown smell like overcooked Brussels sprouts for a month. Maybe something like that was going on, or there was an overturned fertilizer truck somewhere near downtown Dayton. The news on my phone didn’t show any stories of that nature, so whatever it was, it must’ve just happened.

I noticed a few people checking their shoes and giving their clothing a nonchalant whiff to see if they were the source. I checked my shoes as well. The soles were clean. My jacket still smelled like Downey fabric softener.

“Alright, who fucking shit?” A teen a few seats up asked the bus. This was met with a few giggles from the bus patrons.

By the time we reached my stop, all of the windows were down, and the bus driver had the fan going full blast, but it wasn’t helping.

I hurried into my building, anxious to leave the stench cloud outside. I got on the elevator with three other people, who began sniffing the air shortly after the door closed. Whatever that smell was, it followed me from the bus.

Two floors up, one of the other passengers got out.

“Did you smell that guy?” I said to the women still in the car with me.

“Was it him?” One of them asked.

“Oh God, yes!” I said. “I could almost see stink lines coming off his shirt.”

They bought it initially, but after three more floors, the smell seemed to concentrate even more. By the time I reached the seventh floor, one woman was openly gagging.

I darted out and headed towards my desk, dropping off my laptop before making a quick stop at Ken’s desk (the other IT guy) to tell him that I needed to run diagnostics on the server. He nodded, and then I noticed his eyes squint as his nose turned up. I hurried off towards the server room.

Running diagnostics was code for taking a nap in the server room. Or playing Fortnite in the server room. Or watching Twitch streams and OnlyFans in the server room. Needless to say, we did a lot of private shit in the server room, so no one questioned when one of us needed some alone time in there. On top of that, I knew he would run interference for me if anyone came looking.

I ran my badge through the card swipe and entered the air-conditioned paradise that was our company’s server room. Only Ken, myself, security, and the CEO had access to this room, so I knew I would be undisturbed in my search for whatever the fuck was causing that smell. I started stripping, tossing my clothes into separate piles. Jacket, shirt, undershirt, pants, shoes—

When I put my left shoe under my nose, I could almost feel the humidity change as the tendrils of aroma drifted up into my nostrils. I gagged. It was like sweat, cheese, spoiled milk, and sweaty ass crack all rolled into one. It wasn’t coming from the sole of the shoe; it was coming from inside of it.

I pinched my nose shut and looked inside the shoe. I’m not sure what I expected to find, but there was nothing there. Although my eyes were watering a bit, the smell was already starting to dissipate. I looked down at my socks, still on my feet.

I first removed my right sock, holding it by the heel and wafting it in front of my nose. Nothing.

Then to my left sock. I didn’t even need to hold it close to my face before I could tell it was disgusting.

This brings me back to the spot on my big toe that I saw in the shower. What had been the size of a small bug in the shower had now grown to the size of a dime, bluish-gray in color, but perfectly normal when I rubbed my fingers over its skin.

I then smelled my fingers. Fuck, I’m an idiot. The smell almost knocked me out.

What followed started as a little tickle, like a feather gently rubbing back and forth over the spot on my foot. This tickle grew into a dull itch. I reached out to scratch it, stopping myself when I remembered the smell of my fingers after touching that spot. Luckily, I had a pen in my pocket, so I used that to scratch the itchy spot.

Scratching that spot felt fucking amazing.

There’s no better feeling than the relief that comes from getting that hard-to-reach itch, but this was ten times better than that. The relief was so intense I felt my eyes rolling back in my head a little as I let out a soft moan. It was the most overwhelming relief I had ever felt, and it just kept going the longer I scratched.

My body was trembling, all of my senses on high alert. I probably would’ve kept scratching had I not noticed the blood on the tip of my pen. I had rubbed the spot completely raw, and now the little kidney bean-shaped spot was speckled with blood. I am just glad I had an understanding with my coworker about server time and didn’t have to worry about someone stumbling upon me now, sitting in my underwear on the floor of the server room, scratching my foot to ecstasy with my pen.

As soon as I stopped scratching, the tickling sensation returned, followed by a burning itch in my foot. I scratched my foot again to relieve the itch, sending waves of that same overwhelming relief over my body. It felt so good I almost cried from how perfectly it hit the spot. So good, I didn’t realize at first that I stopped using the pen and used my fingers.

I pulled my fingers away, and the tickling and itching sensation returned. This time, I held off on scratching. If I don’t scratch it, the itch will go away on its own, right?

I flexed the muscles in my legs every time the itching tickle waved over my foot.

Don’t think about it; it will go away.

I felt a sharp twinge of pain in my foot that caused me to kick out, like getting hit with a reflex hammer. I clenched my jaw as another jab of pain stabbed my foot, my breathing becoming heavier as I fought the urge to scratch.

I closed my eyes as every muscle in my body twitched with every tickle and stab of pain in my foot. It was agonizing. It felt like a feather twirling against the skin of my toe in light, wispy touches. Then every so often, a needle jabbed into my skin, not too deep, just enough to cause my skin to jump and muscles to twitch.

It’s going to stop, I told myself, balling my fists against my eyes as I bear down against the itching and stinging.

No, it won’t, my mind argued back.

Yes, it will. If I don’t touch it, it will stop itching on its own.

Another jab. I clenched my jaw and pounded my fists into the floor, flexing my calf muscles until I almost cramped up.

How’s that working out for ya, champ? My mind could be a real prick sometimes.

I told myself to close my eyes and take a deep breath, focus just on the air rushing inside my nostrils, not paying attention to the tickle on my foot, or that needle jabbing into my skin, twisting just a little before withdrawing. Ignore your foot twitching, just focus on exhaling, feel your chest lower as that fucking Goddamn needle jabs your fucking foot again, oh fuck oh god oh Jesus Fuck make it stop!

I lurched forward and scratched. I couldn’t take it. And let me tell you, scratching felt fucking amazing again. I didn’t even care about using my fingers; I scratched with both hands. I would’ve gnawed on it with my teeth if I were flexible enough to get my foot to my mouth. I looked around for anything abrasive within reach to use to scratch harder. I found a slide rail for the server racks in one of the parts cabinets, using the sharp-edged corners to scratch. Sure, it fucking hurt, and my foot was now dripping with blood, but it felt so good. Plus, it kept the itching at bay. And the itching was unbearable.

I paused from my scratching to look at the damage. The spot was hardly visible through the blood on my toe, and the skin was raw and hot to the touch. I couldn’t tell if the smell was still there or not since I’d been marinating in it for so long; perhaps my nose had gotten used to it. The pain from scratching seemed to keep the itching at bay (for now), so I took my chance to get dressed and leave work.

There was no way I could work today. I needed to get to the doctor to look at this. Before I put my shoe on, I managed to break off a piece of the rail and slip it in my sock against the spot on my toe. When I put my shoe on over it, the jagged metal piece raked against my skin and kept breaking the wound open as I walked, causing both pain and that same overwhelming relief. Anything to keep it from itching.

I stopped briefly at Ken’s desk to tell him I was going home sick, and that I had my laptop if he needed me to remote in. I was soaking with sweat, my hands were streaked with dried blood, and I stunk like ass. He nodded and covered his mouth, trying not to gag.

Everyone gave me a wide berth as I left the office. I didn’t care; I just needed to get out of there. I’m sure once this was behind me, I could explain away my appearance and odd behavior. Probably not the smell, though.

I took the stairs rather than defile another elevator; the amazing feeling of that metal digging into my foot with each step made me wish I had more than seven floors to go down.

Rather than stink up the front lobby, I went out the back of the building through the maintenance area. The cool morning breeze cleared away the stench of my foot as I called my doctor to make an appointment. I kicked my foot against the wall of my building as I spoke with the receptionist, who informed me that my doctor didn’t have any openings today.

I googled for the closest Urgent Care location and found one about a mile away. No need to take the bus, I can walk there. Fuck that. I may run the whole way, kicking my foot against every brick building, streetlight pole, and mailbox to jam that metal in deeper.

During my walk (the run didn’t last long, I’m not in good enough shape), I checked WebMD for my symptoms (no luck) and tried to retrace my steps to figure out where this spot on my toe came from. But there wasn’t anything that I could recall; there was no catalyst, no curse or series of weird events that led to me walking to Urgent Care on a Wednesday with a piece of metal cutting into my foot to keep me from going insane.

I’ve read plenty of stories where the hero's actions were directly tied to the events that unfolded. Cause and effect. Swallow the spider to catch the fly. Swallow the bird to catch the spider. And so on. When there’s just an effect with no apparent cause, that’s the shit that scares the fuck out of me.

I read an article the other day about a child at the playground being hit by a stray bullet while his mother pushed him on the swings. There was nothing he did to deserve it; just unlucky to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. We want to believe that if we do the right things with our lives, we get to live to a ripe old age and die peacefully in our sleep. But children get hit by stray bullets, good people get cancer and die in their twenties, and I have to walk to fucking Urgent Care smelling like roadkill, with no reason for any of it to happen.

By the time I reached my destination, my sock was soaked through with blood. I hobbled into the lobby, which, to my relief, was empty except for the receptionist. I can only imagine how bad I looked, sweating and bleeding, because her mouth dropped open when she saw me. It didn’t take long for her to close it, covering her mouth and nose with her hand when she smelled me shuffling to the counter.

“I need to see a doctor,” I told Dawn, whose name I learned from the nametag affixed to the lime green scrubs covering her ample chest. “I have a spot on my toe that…”

“Sir,” Dawn interrupted, muffled as she spoke through her hand, “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to go to the emergency room.”

“I walked here. I don’t know what happened, but I woke up smelling like this, and my foot itches like crazy. I need to see a doctor.” I added, “Please.”

“Sir, we are not equipped to deal with an infection this severe. You need to get to a hospital and have that foot looked at. And I will call the police if you don’t stop kicking this desk!”

I didn’t even realize I was kicking. I apologized and asked if she would at least call for an ambulance and explain my symptoms, which I listed for her. She agreed, as long as I sat outside while I waited. I heard her call me a “cracker ass methhead” as I walked outside after listening to her make the call for the ambulance.

When the ambulance arrived, I explained my symptoms again as they took my vitals: blood pressure, temperature, pulse. I explained the itching on my foot and how the only way I could stop the pain was to scratch it. Not only that, but scratching it sent waves of euphoric relief through my body. I asked that they leave my shoe on until we reach the hospital and that they not try to bandage me up until after I’d spoken to the doctor. They agreed, probably because they didn’t want to permeate the stench throughout the ambulance.

They loaded me onto the gurney, telling me they had to strap my arms and legs down to the railings, a safety requirement for ambulances, so I don’t sue them if we end up in an accident. I just wanted to get to the hospital, even with the metal digging into my foot, the itching was starting to come back.

It wasn’t until they had me strapped down that I realized I had fucked up.

---

To be continued in Part 2: How It’s Going.

Share this with the most normal person you know.