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Trichotillomania

By @stephiedenise

Prompt #1: August 21 2018

She gripped the rim of the porcelain sink and tried to steady her hands.

“One last time,” she said whispered to herself.

One. Last. Time.

—–

Trichotillomania

Nell ran her fingers through her hair; thin, brittle, uneven and tempting. “Tempting,” she scoffed, her hand returning to the top of her crown.

Pinch. Pluck. Pulse. Pinch. Pluck. Pulse. Pinch. Pluck. Pulse.

This was the 5,000th day, give or take, that her mind was running this vicious cycle through down through her motor muscles. She could feel the muscles in her hand straining and becoming tired. These sensations could pull her out of her trance for the first 10 years or so, but now, over the last two, the burning sensation tearing through her joints was becoming pleasant company for the equally irritating desire to rip a follicle – cold, wet, juicy and occasionally crunchy – out of her scalp, rubbing it across her lips, and nibbling at it. “Like a ******* rabbit,” she muttered.

Pinch. Pluck. Pulse. Pinch. Pluck. Pulse. Pinch. Pluck. Pulse.

Pieces of Nell’s hair were clumping around the sink, sticking to the remnants of old toothpaste and hard water residue. She admired them, oddly-enough. Nell’s arm fell to her side. “Finally,” she exhaled. The soreness in her arm started to set in. The 6-inch long, 2 inch wide, bald spot winded down the middle of her scalp. She ran her fingers down the oily line – she shuttered, how could she cry at her reflection in the mirror while simultaneously enjoying and melting into the pain and pressure on her raw, freshly-plucked skin?

She gripped the rim of the porcelain sink and tried to steady her hands.

“One last time,” she said whispered to herself.

One. Last. Time.

Pinch. Pluck. Pulse. Pinch. Pluck. Pulse. Pinch. Pluck. Pulse.

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