A. scratched her a spot on her forearm absentmindedly. She did it a lot nowadays. The tender spot in the crook of her arm ached as if it was being pierced by a hot needle.
Her friends noticed the stranger, new habit right away, but A. had a good excuse for it.
She was getting shots for her allergy. That’s all.
Some accepted it without question, some needed a little more gauding but all eventually dropped the subject.
Only A. new the truth.
Only in the confines of her room, behind closed doors A. allowed herself to look at the ugly mark that now stained her otherwise pristine, clear skin.
A mark that was crawling, spreading like a plague from the top of her forearm.
A mark of a hunter.
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