Scratch by Logan Cox

There’s a shattered television outside on the curb. Pedestrians are starting to gather around it like pigeons. They look more confused than pigeons.


Why are people around here so shocked when I throw things out the window? I mean, I’ve done it three times already.


Scratch that, four times. Forgot about Satan’s toaster last week.

This apartment is a horrible little place that should be condemned, and I pay my rent. So what are they gonna do, evict me? I’m the only resident in this place who doesn’t cook meth in the kitchen.

The rituals that everyone hands out like candy that are supposed to calm me down only seem to agitate me further.


“Take deep breaths.” They said.

“Drink some tea.” They said.


Deep breaths get way too close to the area my heart used to be. I hate tea. I looked down at the street where an irritating man, barking orders to his kids, loaded the broken TV into the bed of his truck. People will take anything nowadays.

If the cops want to come by and give me a ticket for littering, let them. They should have other things to deal with in this neighborhood.

Looking at the sidewalk, I cold tell where the corner hit the pavement was going to retain a significant scratch.

I don’t want tea. I might want cookies.

I decide to make them from scratch.

I put an old vinyl on, to soundtrack the experience, still half expecting it to get interrupted halfway through by those sickening flashing lights outside.

Instead it got interrupted when the record hit a scratch.

I’m running out of things to pitch out the window. Maybe I’ll try to make cookies again tomorrow, this evening has been expensive enough on my electronics. Heaven knows what I’ll do to my laptop if the cookies turn out anything less than perfect. I get into bed and stare at the ceiling. I run my left hand along the space between the thumb and the index finger on my right hand. The spot she gripped so tight when they were taking her into emergency surgery.

Her fingernail left a scratch.

Sometimes scratches heal. But sometimes you don’t want them to.


Logan Cox is a young writer currently living in the south of Spain. He was raised by kind parents who showed him the world and the right way to live, also seeing to it that his education was supplemented by frequent travel. He can usually be found at the kitchen table, laughing until he cries with his family, and daydreaming excessively.

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