On the third day at Aunty Nic’s, he failed to finish even half of the Vegemite sandwich Lena had made him for lunch, and she yelled that he couldn’t blame her if it was shit since he hadn’t given her any money for food and she was nearly out and so had to buy day-old bread instead of fresh. He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t the bread, it was the eye-watering sting of Vegemite on an open mouth wound, but she had already stormed out. After that, too hungry and worn down to feel shame, he called the emergency dentist from the other night and asked if there was any way—any way at all at all at all—he could be treated today and pay later.

No, was the short answer. The receptionist gave him another number to ring which turned out to be for a practice that provided free dental care if you had a pension or Centrelink concession card. Didn’t matter he was eligible for free care based on his unemployed status; if he hadn’t done the paperwork and had it processed in time for the toothache he was shit out of luck. Also, the queue was quite long. Might be months, unless there was a cancellation. A hospital training clinic might be a possibility, he was told, and given more numbers. He called every one of them, was put on three waiting lists, felt slightly more positive but also in agony.

And although he was truly fucking starving, swore he could feel his muscles cannibalising themselves as he worked, he was relieved when Lena didn’t raise the topic of dinner that night. There was nothing he could imagine eating that wouldn’t cause him to throw up with the pain.

NIC

NIC

Nic’s blood itches. She knows she can’t say that out loud, knows it sounds like a confused-old-dear thing to say and if there’s one thing she can’t bloody have it’s for the people here to receive confirmation that she is, indeed, a confused old dear.

But how else to describe this feeling? Like the itch is both deep and on the move. Like even if you could find a way to get inside your arteries and scratch you couldn’t ever get to it. A flowing itch. An itchy stream.

Her pain meds have been reduced, she knows. She knows that. Is not confused or incompetent or vulnerable or any of the things she’s heard them say. She knows where she is and why. Knows what’s going into her arm and what she’s taking by mouth. She knows the possible side effects, the ones to accept and the ones to alert the nurses about. She knows all that and none of it accounts for this deep, thick, surging itchiness.