It started as a slight itch in his nose; a tingle in the beginning.  If you were experiencing it, it would only have been enough of an itch to bring your finger up to scratch and then go on. The hour he spent searching for the illusive object with the tweezers, he didn’t scratch just so he could remove whatever it was. He made up for the torture of not scratching by moving his finger quickly, over and over again…feeling the sensation of relief for one single second before the itching began again. He pulled the tweezer out of his nose and scratched, rubbed and desperately dug with his finger to find the twig-like thing in his nose; knowing he had proof that something was there. The relief affected his entire body, giving him goose bumps and the confusing sensation as though he had just had an orgasm.  He would have checked his pants, but the itching continued.

But then the itching didn’t stop.

Another tingle, another scratch.
Another tingle, another scratch.

He noticed his nose was red from where he was scratching it so much.  He put lotion on his nose and thought perhaps what caused his nose to itch so much was living in the dry air from furnace heat during the winter months.  After all, his skin was scaly from getting so dry.

Two days later his nose was raw and red…but he continued to scratch despite how painful it was because the itching was much worse.

And then non-stop scratching.

The itching continued.

Three days later his nose was bleeding and burned when he scratched.  But he couldn’t help himself.  The incessant itching became maddening for him.  He couldn’t sleep, he wasn’t eating…he wasn’t living.  All he could do was keep scratching.

He looked in the mirror and cried as he scratched and rubbed his inflamed nostril.  Blood stained his index finger and fingernails.

And then it began to itch deeper into his nose, but the sensation changed from tingling to more of a crawling feeling.

He stuck his finger deep inside his nose to relieve the itch and when he looked in the mirror, his finger was in his nose up to the knuckle and still, the itching continued.

He had not left home during these last three days.  He couldn’t get to the door before having to scratch his nose.  He felt embarrassed and incapacitated by the itch.  He just knew at some point the itch would stop and he decided to wait it out.

But it didn’t stop.

Knuckle deep in his nose, wiggling his finger around, rubbing and scratching, he felt a slight prick by what seemed like the tip of a twig.

“What the fuck is that?  What the goddamned fuck is in my nose?” he thought to himself.  He grabbed his tweezers and put them deep inside his nose.

At first, the cold metal felt good against his hot and sore nose.  But then the metal felt uncomfortable and burned in the way that metal objects don’t belong that far into a nasal cavity and his body let him know it through pain.  He kept pinching and searching for the twig-like thing, and an hour later he finally felt it again.  He pinched tightly and pulled slowly to make sure he could pull whatever it was out.  He felt something move with his slight pull.  Just as he felt hopeful, just as he felt confident he would be able to get it out, a piece of whatever it was broke off.

He looked down at the tweezers to determine what he had pulled from his nose.  What he saw looked much like a splinter.

He shoved the tweezer back in and kept searching.  The metal stung, his nose itched, and then…

he felt whatever it was in his nose move on its own.

It crawled up his nasal cavity, increasing the sensation of an itch that could only be matched by a horrible poison ivy exposure.  It itched so much more intensely now that he could barely feel the movement of whatever it was inside his nose.  His nose itched so much that he began to bleed some more and and the rawness burned like fire.

He stopped itching.

It stopped moving.

His head felt hot.

His nose throbbed.

He looked at his finger.

And then he fell to the floor.

He didn’t move.

The silence in the bathroom felt sterile.

Then began a scratching sound followed by the sound that iceburg lettuce makes when someone has ripped it in half.  His head split in half and each of the halves rocked back and forth like a freshly discarded walnut shell.

There was nothing inside his head.   No brains, no blood, no juices.

From the empty shell that used to house memories, a personality, and the blueprint for his life, crawled something that looked like a roach.  Every part of its body was symmetrical - each half of it’s shell was identical to the other.  Each leg had the same bend on one side as it did on the other side.  Each eye carried the same glassy reflection of the bathroom light - a bright, obtuse, white shape in a pool of black glass.

The only difference was one of the bug’s antenna was shorter than the other.

     [ Many years ago, I wrote a a ton of fictional short stories.  Many of them were inspirational.  Many of them weren't.  I'm not sure where this one fits, but it somehow seems pertinent. ]

     Once upon a time, there was a tribe of people who lived isolated and sheltered from the world.  There was great poverty and suffering.  They lacked the farmland to produce their own food, lacked the tools to wage war and there was great fear that one day they would be overtaken by a more powerful tribe.
     To this end, the chief decreed that an ornate vessel be crafted out of clay, clad in silver and adorned with the finest decoration.  During the day, the vessel would be displayed in the center of the village, and people were to open the top and pour their fears into it.  At night, it would be locked away, sheltered from the elements, its beauty retained.

     Over the years, many people coveted the beautiful vessel.  Others wanted to destroy it, some because it reminded them of their fears and others simply hated the idea that such a vessel should exist.
     Eventually, the vessel was locked away in a mountain and left to tarnish.

     Rumors spread to surrounding tribes about the fear vessel.  Some spoke of it being an evil vessel to be despised, so full of fear and dread that it should be destroyed.  Others spoke only its beauty.
     One man became intrigued by the idea of such of ornate vessel being locked away.  It consumed his thoughts.  “Why would they pour their fears into such a treasure, only to lock it away from the world?” he wondered.  He began to dream about the vessel every night, and the vessel seemed to be beckoning him with a sorrowful moan.
     After a while, he finally decided that he should set out to find it.

     The path was long and arduous, but after searching for years, he came upon a cave near a mountain stream.  As he entered, he heard the sorrowful moan from his dream and knew that he was close.  Clamoring through roots and over rocks, he finally came to the end of the cave and found the object of his long quest.  Lying there was the fear vessel, tarnished and covered in dust. 
     He carefully picked it up, wiped it clean, and decided to return to home.

     At home, he took the task of cleaning the still-sealed vessel thoroughly, restoring its precious beauty.  He placed it carefully where he could look upon it from anywhere he was in his home, as it gave him comfort look upon such a beautiful thing.  At night, he would dream and the sorrowful moan became a contented hum.

     One day, he decided that the vessel needed to be returned to where it had been created so many years before.  He packed his meager belongings and found himself setting up a home in the village of the vessel’s origin.
     Some people were happy to have their precious vessel returned to their village.  Others coveted the vessel and attempted to steal it away.  Still others hated the vessel, and wanted it destroyed.  But he kept it safe, carrying it with him everywhere he went, displaying it proudly.

     He continued to dream of the vessel.  Eventually, the man’s curiosity finally got the best of him.  He awoke one night, and decided to open the vessel.  When he peered inside at all of the fears people had put inside it, he became frightened himself.
     It was then that he began the slow task of gathering a little of the fear at a time and releasing it into the nearby mountain stream.  Several months passed and the vessel more and more beautiful all the time as he continued to polish it and remove some of the fear from inside it.
     The more fear he touched to carry away, the more afraid he became.  Still, he continued to clean the vase each day until he spilled the vessel upon him.  The fear inside washed over him, and he became terrified.  It ran across the ground, making everyone in the village afraid.
     Hearing of this, the chief ordered that the man be exiled from the village and that the vessel once more more be used for its intended purpose.  The people once again began filling it with their fears, ending all that the man had attempted to do.  Humiliated and defeated, he returned to his home, still dreaming of the vessel, once more hearing its sorrowful moan.

     He decided that the best thing would be to steal the vessel away, to return it to his home where it could be content once more.  Set to this course, he became frantic, and more and more afraid.  Still, he pressed on and began preparing for the journey back to the remote village.
     Every step of the way, he stumbled and fell.  Still, he tried desperately to reach the vessel.  Every night as he slept, the vessel moaned to him, and strengthened his resolve.
     Continuing onward, he met a sage who was returning from the village.  “Why do you wish to go there?” he asked.
     The man relayed his story and spoke of his dreams of the sorrowful vessel.
     The sage pondered for a moment, and replied, “If you follow this path for the dreams of contentment, then be on your way.  But if your dreams are only of fear and sorrow, then you are surely a fool.”  With that, he walked away.
     The man stayed to ponder the sage’s words for several nights.  On the third night, it was decided.  He had dreamed of the beauty and sorrow of the vessel, and in his haste to end its sorrow, he had spilled its fear into him.  The dreams of the sorrowful moan were powerful, yet what he truly wanted was the contentment that he felt when the vase was well kept, where it could be free of the fear which gave it its sorrowful moan.

     And for that, he continued on his journey to the remote village.