he could think of, without success. So today he’d decided to try a more creative approach. Instead of tackling the problem in a linear fashion, he was going to try turning his subconscious loose on it. As much as scientific advances were a result of step-by-step processes, they also were born in sudden unexpected bursts of insight, the fabled and often sought after Eureka! moment. Today Peter hoped to cultivate a moment of his own.
His office wasn’t very large, nor was it impressive. If it hadn’t been for the nameplate affixed to the wall outside, no one would have guessed that this was the office of the CEO and Head of Development for NuFlesh Biotech. Though considering that his office was located in a strip mall between a sub shop and a license bureau, and that the business had a total of five employees, including himself, he didn’t see much point in putting on airs. He wore a long-sleeved red pullover and jeans, a step below corporate casual, which was fine as far as he was concerned. He was a scientist, not a stockbroker. He wore a full black beard, partially because he thought it made him look more intelligent—and a bit roguish—but mostly to hide the burn scars that covered the lower right half of his face. He did all his “paperwork” virtually, and aside from the computer, the top of his desk was empty. He had a few books on the shelf behind him, none of which he’d touched in who knew how long. His doctoral diploma hung on one wall, while on the opposite was a framed poster—a large black-and-white photo of Einstein sticking his tongue out. The poster was supposed to remind Peter not to take everything so seriously, but today the sight of it only pissed him off. He couldn’t afford to let the stress get to him. Not if he wanted to create the optimal conditions for a subconscious breakthrough. And he badly needed one.
Two years, seven months, eight days. That was how long he’d been struggling to solve this particular problem, and at this point, he was willing to try almost anything. The financial state of his company wasn’t exactly “robust,” as the corporate types would put it, and if he didn’t make some progress on the new formula soon... He thrust the thought from his mind. Worrying about money was no way to relax. He gazed at the screen and allowed his breathing to become slow and even, and before long he felt his body relax against his office chair. That’s when it kicked in.
The Itch.
It began on his right shoulder blade, little more than the sensation of a feather brushing against his skin. He could ignore that. But it soon spread across his entire back, his chest, down his right arm, up his neck and across the right side of his face, building in intensity until it felt as if a thousand ants were crawling over his skin. That he couldn’t ignore.
“Don’t scratch,” he whispered. He gripped the armrests of his chair tight, fingers digging into the padding. He knew from long, painful experience that not only didn’t scratching make the itch go away, once he got started, he wouldn’t be able to stop until he’d clawed bloody runnels in his flesh. Even then the itching would continue.
Peter knew it was common for burn victims to experience discomfort like his, even long after their burns had healed and scar tissue formed. In his case, that had been almost three decades before. He’d gotten his scars as a result of a house fire caused by his idiot of a stepfather falling asleep on the couch one night while smoking. Peter and his mother got out of the house in time, but his stepfather hadn’t made it. His mother hadn’t lasted long, either. She’d died en route to the hospital, not from her burns—severe as they were—but from a heart attack. Peter had only been eleven at the time. Even though twenty-seven years and more operations than he cared to think about had passed since then, the Itch, when it came, was as bad as ever.
The many doctors and specialists he’d seen
His office wasn’t very large, nor was it impressive. If it hadn’t been for the nameplate affixed to the wall outside, no one would have guessed that this was the office of the CEO and Head of Development for NuFlesh Biotech. Though considering that his office was located in a strip mall between a sub shop and a license bureau, and that the business had a total of five employees, including himself, he didn’t see much point in putting on airs. He wore a long-sleeved red pullover and jeans, a step below corporate casual, which was fine as far as he was concerned. He was a scientist, not a stockbroker. He wore a full black beard, partially because he thought it made him look more intelligent—and a bit roguish—but mostly to hide the burn scars that covered the lower right half of his face. He did all his “paperwork” virtually, and aside from the computer, the top of his desk was empty. He had a few books on the shelf behind him, none of which he’d touched in who knew how long. His doctoral diploma hung on one wall, while on the opposite was a framed poster—a large black-and-white photo of Einstein sticking his tongue out. The poster was supposed to remind Peter not to take everything so seriously, but today the sight of it only pissed him off. He couldn’t afford to let the stress get to him. Not if he wanted to create the optimal conditions for a subconscious breakthrough. And he badly needed one.
Two years, seven months, eight days. That was how long he’d been struggling to solve this particular problem, and at this point, he was willing to try almost anything. The financial state of his company wasn’t exactly “robust,” as the corporate types would put it, and if he didn’t make some progress on the new formula soon... He thrust the thought from his mind. Worrying about money was no way to relax. He gazed at the screen and allowed his breathing to become slow and even, and before long he felt his body relax against his office chair. That’s when it kicked in.
The Itch.
It began on his right shoulder blade, little more than the sensation of a feather brushing against his skin. He could ignore that. But it soon spread across his entire back, his chest, down his right arm, up his neck and across the right side of his face, building in intensity until it felt as if a thousand ants were crawling over his skin. That he couldn’t ignore.
“Don’t scratch,” he whispered. He gripped the armrests of his chair tight, fingers digging into the padding. He knew from long, painful experience that not only didn’t scratching make the itch go away, once he got started, he wouldn’t be able to stop until he’d clawed bloody runnels in his flesh. Even then the itching would continue.
Peter knew it was common for burn victims to experience discomfort like his, even long after their burns had healed and scar tissue formed. In his case, that had been almost three decades before. He’d gotten his scars as a result of a house fire caused by his idiot of a stepfather falling asleep on the couch one night while smoking. Peter and his mother got out of the house in time, but his stepfather hadn’t made it. His mother hadn’t lasted long, either. She’d died en route to the hospital, not from her burns—severe as they were—but from a heart attack. Peter had only been eleven at the time. Even though twenty-seven years and more operations than he cared to think about had passed since then, the Itch, when it came, was as bad as ever.
The many doctors and specialists he’d seen
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