The Itch

I feel the itch. It’s creeping up my spine, down my arms, tingling along my fingers. It would be so easy to dial up Amazon, put in a pre-order for Akira volume 3: I’m almost done with the 2^nd volume. Just a few newspaper print pages stand between me and the end of every good story; a cardboard cover.

I made a promise. I’m being fiscally responsible. I’m still in the middle of 2 other books; one series of Midwestern ghost stories for my purse, one hefty apocalyptic Joe Hill novel for home. I have another manga on the way. Yu-Gi-Oh, my guilty pleasure. How do I explain that it’s more than stupid card games and censored sexuality?

The itch.

I’m not even done with Akira volume 2. We haven’t even seen Akira yet. Just the rebels and the military of post nuclear bomb (no not those two, another one) Neo-Toyko. But I have to know. The Movie won’t do. Will the movie cover the painful days Kaneda spent hidden with Kei, dodging cops and the military? The weeks Tetsuo spent in blinding pain building up a murderous gang, his induction into the facility, his numbering, his growing power and escape?

Probably. But not as slowly or delicately. Not with the black and white intensity on those tissue pages.

What about The Fireman? Harper and her burning dragonscale disease? The baby inside her, waiting to see if it can be born before its mother bursts into flames? The mysterious trick-or-treaters passing out hope and prenatal vitamins dressed as Tony the Tiger and Captain America? What about the rest of the world, charred and cindered? 

I don’t ache. I don’t burn. I itch. I dig into those pages, scratch the surface of another mind, balm myself in words. 

I’ll hold off. Maybe I can blaze through my Fireman, burn through two hells, and ride a dragon to fiery glory at the end. 

I will scratch that itch.