Part 3: Lucid Parasitosis
Chapter 1
Hell didn’t come with fire. It came with skin.
It blistered. Peeled. Cracked. Bled.
It whispered through nerve endings—slow and sadistic.
My scalp erupted in betrayal. Every day after, my body felt more foreign. More hostile. More haunted.
I wasn’t imagining it. I felt it.
Every itch. Every crawl. Every pulse beneath the surface that shouldn’t have been there.
I wasn’t afraid of being crazy.
I was afraid I was right.
Something had moved in—not a parasite, maybe, but a presence. A punishment.
A rot science hasn’t named yet.
I didn’t self-harm to die.
I cut. Scraped. Clawed.
Trying to free something trapped inside.
Trying to make sense of the scream beneath my skin.
Chapter 2
Some doctors dismissed me. Flat-out.
“It’s psychological.”
“It’s nothing.”
“You’re fine.”
But not all of them.
A few looked deeper. Their faces didn’t carry judgment—just confusion. Concern.
They knew something was wrong.
They just didn’t know what.
That made it worse, somehow.
To be seen… but still unsaved.
Chapter 3
I used to use sex to feel wanted.
To feel seen.
To feel anything.
But now? I didn’t want strangers.
I didn’t want validation.
I just wanted him.
Deacon.
My blue-eyed ghost.
The one who once told me I was more than a body.
I wanted to believe him again.
I stopped fearing death.
I started fearing mirrors.
I stopped fearing loneliness.
I started fearing I was already gone.
Lucid Parasitosis, I’ve named it.
A name for the feeling they can’t measure—but I can.
Maybe it’s not just disease. Maybe it’s grief—
Infesting the body when the soul has nowhere left to go.