even accused me of conspiring against him."
"Conspiring? With whom?” the doctor inquired.
"His skin," she said softly.
Dr. Usher frowned, putting his glasses back on.
"Hmmm. That's worrisome. He's personalized this
delusion. Given it an identity."
Eleanor nodded eagerly. "Yes. That's exactly it. He
calls it his Enemy, with a capital 'e'. I've even heard him
talking to it. In the bathroom, you know, when he
examines his skin. He's really convinced it's out to destroy
him. Like it has a will of its own. It sounds outrageous, but
he's suffering so much distress. And you know what else?"
She shuddered. "It's starting to give me the creeps."
She looked at the doctor intently, an anguished
expression on her face. “Please, Dr. Usher, you have to do
something. Alex just isn’t the same person he used to be.
I’m afraid I’m going to lose my husband to this terrible
disorder.”
Alex sat in the car, gripping the steering-wheel
tightly, watching his knuckles turn white. He stared at his
hands, his Skin, for a very long time; long enough for the
pounding of his heart to subside and the sweat on his
brow and under his arms to cool.
Automatically he reached around to massage his
neck, just above the back of his collar, even though he
knew from experience that it wouldn't get rid of the
itching and tingling. Nothing would, it seemed, except
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