NEW FICTION:

His arms itched - from elbow to wrist, they itched. He scratched relentlessly with his grubby, bitten-down nails till his forearms glistened with prickles of weak blood - but it wouldn't stop the scratching. He frowned, knowing the firm admonitions that were to come: You know you shouldn't do this. You know it doesn't help. You know it won't bring them back. Hesitation. You know they were never really there. He murmured to himself his well-planned answers, answers that would never come. For every admonition, he had only ever replied with a nod, he would only ever reply with a nod - what was the point in doing otherwise. His itching wouldn't stop. He needed them to come back, but the itching wouldn't stop.