Itch.

Its back. She's hyper-sensitive to every sound, touch or thought.

Sound irritates her. Any kind.

Touch irritates her. Every kind.

Her own thoughts make her want to scream.

Frustration, annoyance, irritation, anger, paranoia, fear. Its all mixed up in her head till she feels like she's on breaking point, teetering on the brink of insanity from the force of it. It binds her head in a band till her eyes scrunch up and her breath heaves in shallow pants and she wants to explode, craves it: the explosion.

Craves it.

She clutches at her hair, tearing out the small chunks she's able to in a futile effort to escape the pain. Futile, little girl. Futile. It won't end so soon, so easily.

She moans, her hope dying out.

She knows.

She accepts.

And she closes her eyes in defeat, letting her soul and will flounder away to nothingness till a blessed numbness falls over her.

Blessed Numbness.

Death wins every time, little girl. Every time.