Michael Biehn Archive

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A Close Shave

When it all was said and done, he supposed, everything that had led up to this humiliating point in his life could and should be blamed on the small bit of flake and fluff he held in his hand.

With a snort, he studied it, turning what was left of it over then over again, finally just cramming most of it into his mouth, shaking his head disgustedly while at the same time enjoying every bit of the sweet morsel that filled his cheeks.

He swallowed it down and sighed and absentmindedly scratched at the light stubble that was finally growing in until he realized what he was doing and stopped. He hurt and it itched and scratching only made him hurt and it itch even more. Maddening it all was. The hotter the days seemed to get, the more it seemed to itch and the more it itched the more he scratched until, finally, he had to tear his own hand away before he made things worse and drew any more blood--as if he could afford any more blood to spill.

And the whole thing was driving him crazy.

Really, though, he knew he had only himself to blame. Knew, too, that scratching wasn’t the answer. It only served to make the itch more impossible to bear, not to mention he couldn’t very well go around clawing at himself all damn day.

Could he?

Well, no he couldn’t. With a scowl, he stared at the few tiny crumbs still left sprinkled over the tips of his fingers and wanted to moan.

If only Inez hadn’t baked ‘em in the first place. Then Chris wouldn’t have done it and then everyone else wouldn’t have seen it--

No, he would not think about that anymore. Too fuckin’ embarrassing.

He scratched again and the pain of his own touch as he brushed fingertips lightly over his skin finally did have him moaning in misery.

His head hurt and his leg still throbbed like hell and he itched and he was still hungry, dammit, not that anyone was giving *that* much notice. Not that anyone even seemed to be around to notice.

Where was everyone? Anyone?

He stared up at the wood beam that traversed the length of the ceiling and let his frustration slowly ooze out. The times he craved privacy and the whole world would be crammed up here in this little room, but now, now when he actually wanted somebody to come--there was no one about.

Well, hell. If nobody was around then, goddammit, he would go ahead and let his fingers claw all over the light stubble that was driving him insane.

So what if he popped a few stitches? So what if he made things worse. So what?

He itched!

Even knowing perfectly well he shouldn't and warned aplenty not to, he still threw out caution and allowed his fingers to rake deeply over the sensitive skin, groaning aloud with the renewed pain as it mixed with an intense feeling of satisfaction. He shuddered against the hot, agonizing throb that pulsed from deep within his flesh.

All this...because of a damned biscuit.

He licked at a tiny crumb on his finger and sighed. His stomach rumbled.

He wished he had another biscuit now.