It wasn’t the being too terrified to move, nor my horribly dry throat, nor my cramping muscles, nor that I’ve been holding back a serious need to urinate for the past four hours.  It was the itching.  The terrible itching.  The kind of itching and irritation that comes from pink fiberglass insulation.  Micro filaments clinging to my sweaty skin, working their way in, leaving an angry red rash.  The shit managed to get everywhere, my forearms, my face, neck, breasts, somehow I swear it even got in my ass crack.

Things are getting quieter downstairs.  From the first angry outburst, to the small little party of flame cooked raccoon and beer.  The three men seem to be settling in for the night.  Now I have to decide, do I try to sneak out while they sleep?  Do I risk climbing down from the attic and escaping into the night back to the town and its comparative safety?  Or do I stay here.  Muscles cramp, stomach rumbles, throat so dry needing a splash of water.  In my pack there es a tin can of artichoke hearts.  They would be so good right now.  The food filling my stomach, the salty water quenching my thirst, but no.  I can’t.  I can’t move or I risk being heard, no way can I open a can safely.  I can’t even scratch.  I need to scratch!  I could feel the fiberglass scratching between my tanktop and my skin.  God, please can I scratch?

Cobwebs tickle my nose.  Dust chokes my lungs.  The smoke from their indoor fire still fills the attic.  I’m miserable and I’m afraid.  If they hear me they’ll kill me.  If I’m lucky they’ll kill me quickly.

I was fortunate that they didn’t discover me.  It was a loud gunshot only half a block away that alerted me to their presence.  Apparently the men had been walking down the street when a raccoon startled one.  A quick snapshot with his shotgun had dispatched the raccoon and gained the mockery of his friends.  The man had panicked it seemed.  I guess they’d had a close call with some of the dead shortly before and were on edge.

Then they came to the house.  I didn’t hear the door open, what I heard first was a loud voice saying “What the actual fuck?”  I guess the last time they’d been here the walls didn’t have holes ripped into them.  “This is our turf!” another one of them exclaimed.

What they’d seen was the damage I had done to the house.  Using a hammer and a machete I’d smashed through sheet rock.  Ripping and tearing out the copper wire to bring back to Dixons.  I’d been hitting up this house off and on for a couple weeks now.  Honestly, I was feeling taken for granted.  My first load of copper wire got great attention.  It was like the Holy Grail.  Silvy and Talla were needing copper wire and I had found a relatively untouched house full of it.  However quickly what seemed like a gift to them became more and more of an expectation.  Again and again I was expected to provide more and more.

The easy to get wire was gone.  Now it was all work.  Hammering through plaster, playing tug of war with cord.  Falling on termites and choking on splinters.  The place was a wreck.  I’d gone through the living room, kitchen, master bedroom, and even the children’s room.  My hammer ripping through the ABC mural painted on the wall.  Nothing was left, but they demanded more.  Then my eyes looked up.  Ceiling wires!

It took me a moment to find access to the attic, it was in the garage.  I pulled a cord and a trapdoor fell down and a tug of another cord released a rickety wooden ladder.  I climbed up.  Now I had to pull away pink fiberglass insulation.  Receiving a rash courtesy of Owen Corning.  I pulled my tank top up, over my mouth and nose to act as a dust mask, but the fibers got everywhere.  There was a lot of wire though.  My hands pulling it away from staples, coiling it up.  Well until I was disturbed.

Hearing the gunshot I had been quiet, and moved towards a corner, hiding behind some crates and under a table.  I didn’t know who’s turf it was.  Rebel turf?  Arklay Trading Company turf?  It wasn’t Dixon’s turf and it sure as hell wasn’t my turf.

The men were pissed.  They tore through the house looking for whoever had been robbing them.  Cursing and shouting.  One saying how they would cut the throat of whoever had been here.  The other saying what lewd sexual acts he’d perform on the perpetrator before killing them.  Not even bothering to specify if the perpetrator was a man or a woman.

I stayed quiet.  No matter how bad my skin itched, no matter how much I wanted to cough, I kept quiet.  Hidden behind boxes and half under a table.  So when the trapdoor of the attic opened.  When one of the men stuck his head up he didn’t see me.  I didn’t see much of him either, mostly just two barrels of a shotgun behind a half closed eye.  Seemed the man had better sense than me and didn’t want to climb through a sea of pink insulation.

They ate, they drank, they smoked weed.  What I would do for a joint right now…

Really though, I just want to scratch.  The back of my neck…oh it burns…needing to be scratched, and between my breasts, I can feel how red it is….and my thigh….and wear my jeans rub against my waist.  Will they leave already?  Does the hospital have cortisone?