Clean

Chapter 1

Hey everyone. I don’t usually post on forums like this, especially about something so personal, but I’m at my breaking point. I can’t tell if this is a medical issue or something worse… but I know it shouldn’t be happening. I’m a 28-year-old woman. I’ve always been healthy—no major issues, just a quiet life. Now I live alone in this run-down downtown apartment. It’s damp, the pipes drip constantly, and the windows never shut right. It’s not pretty, but it was enough for working from home. Lately, though, the place disgusts me. The mold in the grout, the stale sewer smell—it clings to my skin and won’t wash off. It started about a month ago, in the stupidest way: I dreamed something small and jagged was crawling up my body while I slept. I felt it slither over my feet, under my pajamas, up to my chest… then it latched onto my nipples and sucked until I woke up screaming. It felt so real. I’d drench the sheets in sweat, trying to convince myself it was just a nightmare, but that greasy sensation lingered. Just sweat, sure… but to me, it was proof—something vile had been on me. I started showering obsessively. Scrubbing until my skin turned raw, but the filth never went away. Like something was growing inside me, tiny and relentless. Then the cuts appeared. Thin scratches on my thighs and stomach. At first, I thought I was doing it in my sleep, clawing at myself without realizing. But every morning, there’d be more—deeper, wetter, refusing to heal. I bandaged them, but that made it worse. The smell was acidic, wrong. I became obsessed with cleanliness: washing my hands raw, avoiding touch so I wouldn’t spread it. Soon, those scratches didn’t look like scratches anymore. The skin around them turned soft, like it was rotting. Pressing on it, I’d feel this damp, spongy texture. No pain, just a numb horror. Some spots were just red; others had tiny pustules or open sores oozing pus. I went to a doctor, desperate. He looked at me like I was contagious. Prescribed antibiotic cream, muttered something about a dermatologist, and practically shoved me out. I knew I wouldn’t go back. How could I explain this? They’d think I was insane. But I know the truth. It’s bugs. Mites, bedbugs, something infesting this hellhole apartment. I hear them at night—crawling out of the walls, skittering over my skin, leaving these wounds that split wider every day. I scrub everything nonstop, but it’s not enough. They’re not just in the apartment anymore. They’re in me. My skin. My body. I’ve stopped answering messages, pushed friends away. I can’t risk spreading this. But I’m out of options. Something lives here—something tiny, dark, and hungry.

Chapter 2

I started drinking whiskey, thinking it would dull the pain, or at least help me forget. But I was wrong—it only made everything worse. The wounds kept getting worse. My obsession with cleaning went out of control. I spend hours scrubbing the floors with bleach, pouring gallons of ammonia down the drains, cleaning every corner compulsively. The chemical smell burns my eyes and throat. But I’m convinced that if I stop for even a moment, the bugs will burrow deeper into me. I know it’s them—bedbugs, mites, some invisible infestation living in this cursed apartment. Every damp wall, every rusty pipe, every crack is a nest. At night I can feel them, clear as day, leaving their hiding spots to crawl over me, biting me. The wounds prove it. I don’t sleep anymore. My whole body itches constantly. I can’t stop scratching harder and harder. I’ve gone from sleeping in my bed to the couch, then the kitchen floor, even the bathtub—but it doesn’t matter. Wherever I go, they follow. I started storing my used bandages in sealed bags so they wouldn’t escape. I even burned a few. Every night I wake up terrified, feeling them move under my skin. Under my skin! Not on it anymore—inside it! I’ve clawed off whole chunks of flesh trying to dig out those black specks I’m convinced are eggs or larvae. It’s gotten completely out of control. My body is covered in open wounds. Dried blood stains my sheets. I’m too afraid to use the shared laundry room because I don’t want to infect anyone else. Last night I had a total breakdown. The itching drove me insane. I tore open my thigh so badly it was raw meat. My neighbors pounded on the walls—probably hearing my screams—but I didn’t answer. I don’t think I even felt pain anymore. I crawled to the bathroom, poured rubbing alcohol onto the wounds, and just started laughing like a maniac. Today it got even worse. My left index finger itched so badly I thought I’d go mad. I was sure it was full of larvae—I could feel them squirming. I smashed it with a hammer a couple of times but it didn’t help. They were still moving inside. So I grabbed a kitchen knife and cut off the tip. It was disturbingly easy. I sat there for minutes staring at it, looking for movement. I didn’t see anything—but they had to be there. They’re too small to see! I ended up hacking it apart with a knife and fork, splattering my own blood and flesh all over the table trying to find them. I couldn’t see anything. Finally, I wrapped it up and flushed it down the toilet. Eventually I got so dizzy I threw up in the bathtub. Among the clots I could swear something was moving. I couldn’t bear to look. I cleaned like a maniac again, but the smell seems stuck in every corner. By now it feels like the entire apartment is alive. The walls breathe. The floor has a slow, sick pulse. I’m terrified this is just the beginning. That I’m being eaten alive from the inside. I hadn’t looked at myself in the mirror for days. Today I did, accidentally. It was overwhelming. Horrifying. I used to think of myself as pretty, even sexy. But what I saw today isn’t me. I’m nearly bald. I’ve scratched out so much hair there are only a few tufts left. My skin is a mess of red, raw patches, with white or yellow infected areas. Cuts everywhere. Skin missing in places. At my left shoulder I can even see a bit of bone. This isn’t me. But I can’t think about my looks anymore. All I can focus on is killing this infestation. They’re getting deeper inside me. Since this morning I can feel them in my stomach. I can hear them. The thought of them living in my organs makes me want to vomit, but I won’t let them win. I’ll end this. Today I drank a bit of bleach. My throat felt like it was on fire. It burned all the way down. But it didn’t work. They’re still there. Breeding. Eating me from the inside. Growing. So tonight I’m going to cut my stomach open. I’ll pull it out and try to clean it. I don’t know if I’ll use insecticide or something even stronger. I’m not answering messages or calls anymore. I don’t want anyone coming here. I’m scared of infecting them. Of showing them the monster I’ve become. I’m writing this as a last plea. I need to know if anyone else has been through this. Tell me I’m not alone—even if it just means I’m not going completely insane. Every day is worse. I need to know if anyone has felt this. Please, I need answers before these things kill me.