The Indefatigable Case of Biliferalfricitis

It happened like clockwork. A silent, yet resounding alarm went off in his head and an itch, an unscratchable itch, formed just below the skin liable to drive even the sanest asunder. None of his clothes would fit right, the sound of voices, dull, grating blades against his skin, the mere presence of people and thought searing paper cuts.

And so, when the time came, he left his phone and electronics and the life he barely survived at home and absconded to the quiet. The location varied with season and mood and was never really the point.

This day, he sat in his dead father’s old rowboat (the bastard), with its flaking greige paint revealing years of barely concealed rust buildup and beatings. His line carelessly dropped in the water searching for the fish it’d never catch, perhaps bait would help the situation. He didn’t mind.

The only sounds: the gentle lap of the lake against the metal hull, the intermittent breeze ruffling the nearby trees, and the occasional chatter of the local birds probably gossiping about the poor fisherman alone on the water.

And only in this serene, relative peace, would the pain and itch subside, and he could release the breath he never realized he’d been holding.

And just like that, the timer restarted.