Made from Scratch, Page 3

Percival Ratham first noticed the scab when he was setting the table for dinner.

  He had decided on a formal dinner, and had brought out all the dishes, silverware, white linen napkins, and other accouterments that formality demanded. Tonight’s meal was to be a grand feast, and he wanted everything to be perfect. It was with minor annoyance that he noticed his left arm itched. He paused briefly from his preparations to examine the source of irritation.

  There was a series of small, thin scratches on his forearm. Jocelyn must have clawed him a little earlier. He smiled at the memory. All that physical activity definitely built up an appetite, and Percival could barely wait to partake of the incredible dinner she was going to make for him.

  Apparently, one of the scratches had broken through the skin and bled a little. The resultant scab that formed was causing the itching. He scratched at it, and the scab flaked off. Without thinking, he popped his finger in his mouth, savoring the salty copper taste as the scab melted in his mouth. Yes, he was definitely ready to dig into dinner.

  He scratched his arm some more as he walked into the bathroom. A few drops of blood had welled up when he broke the scab, and he rinsed his arm in the sink before dousing the scratches with peroxide. The antiseptic sting as the peroxide foamed on his arm brought a sweet surcease to the itching. Percival patted his arm dry with a towel and examined the scratches more closely. The marks were a little red-looking, but the bleeding had stopped. He decided they weren’t bad enough to warrant a bandage, and walked back to the dining room to finish setting the table.

  Table set, he stepped back to admire the look of it. It was, if he did say so himself, perfect. The plates, the bowls, the silverware, and glasses, set just so. The centerpiece, artfully arranged to enhance the table settings rather than draw focus from them, was simple and elegant. The lightning needed to be adjusted, though, perhaps made a tad dimmer. And appropriate background music needed to be selected to complete the ambiance.

  As he was standing in front of the CD shelf, trying to choose the perfect album for the meal, Percy realized he was scratching his arm again. As soon as he became consciously aware of the itching again, it increased to the point that it felt like his arm was crawling with ants. He looked down and saw that another scab had formed, larger this time, about the size of a quarter. He scratched the scab off, popped it into his mouth, and chewed.

  He walked back into the bathroom, repeated the rinse and peroxide routine, and decided this time a bandage was called for. He opened up the first aid kit he kept under the sink and grabbed gauze, scissors, and a metal clasp. He gave the length of gauze a couple of turns around his arm, covering the wound, and secured it with a clasp. Holding the extra length taut with his left hand, he used the scissors to snip the gauze right below the clasp. He replaced the scissors and gauze in the kit, put the case back under the sink, and closed the cabinet door. There, problem solved.

  He returned to the music selection. After much dithering, Percival finally settled on Ray Lynch’s Deep Breakfast. He knew, after only a week spent in her company, that the irony would be beyond Jocelyn--or the rest of his family, for that matter--but it added piquancy to the coming meal that delighted him no end. Besides, if the humor wore a little thin, he could always change it.

  He was tempted to head into the kitchen and peek in on Jocelyn while she cooked, but resisted the urge. This would be the finest moment of her life, and his. Everything was set, the food was cooking, and he knew what could happen when impatience led to lifted lids and opened oven doors. No, he didn’t want to do anything to ruin this meal, so he let the meat broil, the sauces simmer, and the vegetables sauté. He contented himself with inhaling the heavenly aromas emanating from the kitchen, imagining the tastes and textures of the courses to come. He was well into the third olfactory course of his much-anticipated meal when the itching returned.

  He opened his eyes reluctantly, and looked down at his arm. And was immediately concerned. The bandage had turned a dark pink--the scratch underneath had been bleeding again. The scratches that weren’t covered by the bandage had a raw and infected look to them. They looked deeper, as well. Christ, I just washed them out not more than twenty minutes ago and they looked fine. Did that bitch Jocelyn have something under her nails? It’d be just like the filthy magpie to not wash her hands after using the bathroom.

  The image of Jocelyn rubbing excrement-covered fingers over his arms and chest prompted a mad dash to the bathroom to once again dig out the first-aid kit. Percival cut open the bandage with the scissors, and gagged at the smell when the gauze fell away. The smell of rotten meat clogged his nostrils as he brought his arm up for closer inspection. The stench was horrid, at first, but with each breath it became a little more bearable, until it seemed to mingle with, then be subsumed by, the aroma of the food cooking in the kitchen.

  Another scab had formed, this one the size, if not the shape, of a silver dollar. It stretched out along his forearm, looking like a flattened, crusty, slug or leech. The skin around the edge of the scab had a bruised and tender look about it, colored with shades of purple and green. He touched the scab and the itching immediately flared. Gritting his teeth against the urge to scratch, Percival poked the scab again. The scab was loose; it felt like it was moving over a thin surface of half-formed Jello. Pus. It had to be pus. He needed to tear the scab off and express the infected matter.

  Percival steeled himself, and then pulled the scab off his arm. Surprisingly, there was no pain-- the scab hung flaccidly between his forefinger and thumb as he examined the scratch it had covered. As he made his examination, he popped the scab into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. It was only as he swallowed that he realized what he had done, and he gagged again. He didn’t vomit, though, and after a few moments, his stomach quit roiling. He was horrified to realize that he had liked the taste of that scab, pus-covered though it was. It had, in fact, tasted better than anything he had ever eaten before.

  But not better than what I am about to eat. Nothing could taste better than the meal I am about to enjoy. And nothing is going to ruin that meal, either, pus be damned.

  Pulling the scab may not have hurt, but, this time, when the peroxide foamed over the bloody mess, the burn was so intense he pounded his right fist against the counter while he stifled a scream. The itch didn’t go away this time, either. The towel felt maddeningly course and abrasive as he dried off the wound. He gave it the full treatment: a thick slather of Neosporin, a sterile pad, and several passes of gauze before he tucked, clasped, and snipped away the loose end. There, that should get him through the meal. He would see his doctor about the—gouges—scratches immediately after.

  As he turned to the bathroom door, Percival felt his stomach cramp violently as wave after wave of nausea washed over him. He fell to his knees, bent over, and rested his head against the floor’s cool tiles. Another cramp spasmed through his gut, and he realized it was the worst hunger pains he had ever felt. He needed to eat, and eat now. He was starving. He was…

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