They hold you down and numb a spot on your inner arm. They say it may leave a scar, are you okay with that? There’s not much choice as they insert the needle. Don’t stare it in the eyes, look away, look at the wall. Make friends with the ceiling. It’s familiar. Like usual, you feel nothing. Like usual, you wish someone was holding your hand or talking to you. The two nurses hover by your side. You think one of them asks you a question and you answer. Surprised, she shakes her head. No, that wasn’t for you, stupid girl. No one is talking to you, only touching you. Also, stop tensing. Why are you so nervous? First time?

When it’s done, you can’t feel your arm, it has died beside your hip. What a shame. They help pull your cardigan on and ask if you want any condoms. No. No use anymore. They’re surprised. They want you to take some. So many sizes and flavours for all your needs, can’t you see? You begin to cry. It has been building behind your eyes since you stared at the wall. Someone was supposed to be here with you. Someone was supposed to watch them put that inside you and talk to you like the nurses weren’t in the room. Someone was supposed to drive you home afterward. They feel sorry and make you a cup of tea, extra milky. They wish you luck on the bus and warn you not to get your bandages wet.

They don’t tell you that soon your arm will begin to itch beneath its bruise, inside the cut, stretched thin. They showed you the plastic wishbone, dipped in progesterone, before they stuck it in. Made a big show of it. See? See? We are not stitching you up empty. You are being touched from the inside out, always, even when you can’t feel it. They will take no nonsense from a patient worrying that they were injected with nothingness. Look at this. Watch us. Do not close your eyes, stupid girl.

But there is something else beneath the bruise, you are sure of it. Your skin shivers when you place your two fingers to the cut, like you are checking a pulse. Scratch it, scratch it, scratch it, not because you want to, but because you need to. Dig your fingers in, follow the threads to your tainted center and wring it clean, as clean as it can be.

But you can’t outrun your body when it smells like someone else. It is too late. You have tasted it now, beneath the skin, beneath your bruise, wanting to be touched from the outside in. On your hands and knees, howling at an empty sky and empty eyes. Knowing you can scratch and scratch and scratch all you want but you’ll never stop that itch, stupid girl.

You know it is in too deep.