22 Dec Just a Little Hole – Creepypasta
Before you call me stupid, I want you to think about your skin. It’s not rare to find little marks or blemishes that you don’t remember receiving. Nothing major, maybe a papercut-sized mark on your arm or a bruise on your leg, stuff no one thinks about. It just happens.
So I wasn’t concerned when I saw the blood under my fingernails, anything could have caused the little scab to form on my arm, and it didn’t hurt when I had carelessly scratched it off. The only reason I noticed it at all was because it wouldn’t stop bleeding, and I didn’t want to stain my shirt.
So after almost half an hour of dabbing at the cut with a tissue and noticing no decline in the volume of blood beading out, I got a bandaid from the first aid kit buried under my sink and stuck it on, then I continued to live my life.
When I woke up the next morning, I found that the bandaid had almost soaked through- And yeah, that freaked me out. But what was I supposed to do, go to the doctor and tell him about the tiny scrape on my arm?
So I used a thicker band aid the second time- and it took hours for the blood to soak through that one.
I cleaned it with alcohol and a cotton swab, and covered it again.
It really had no effect on me. It was just a little cut on my arm and I hardly even thought about it after the first day.
I became accustomed to switching out the bandaids at morning, noon, and night. I stopped cleaning it, but cleaning it didn’t seem to be helping anyway. Eventually it just became a part of my routine and whenever I left the house I made sure I had a bandaid in my pocket.
The few times someone had asked about it I told them it was just a tiny cut on my arm and I didn’t even remember how I’d gotten it, and they’d understood, because who hadn’t experienced that?
I think the problem really boils down to routine. I took the bandaid off and slapped a new one on quick, before anything leaked out. I stopped really looking at it, and when the bleeding started to let up a few weeks later, I was relieved.
One day, when I was at work, I was interrupted halfway through switching the bandage out by one of my coworkers, a man named Mark.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, “what is that?” Mark and I were co-workers, friendly, but not friends.
“Oh, just a little cut. I don’t even know how I got it,” I said casually.
“I don’t know what that is,” he said, “but it’s not a little cut.”
The thing was on the back of my arm, a place where it wasn’t very accessible to my eyes without the help of a mirror, but the look on Mark’s face made my other hand unconsciously feel at the place that was usually covered by a bandage.
Where I expected to feel a rough and healing scab, I felt nothing. The skin was smooth and stretched tight, right up to a hard ridge- and then my fingers sank into a space in my arm.
I felt thin dry membranes break underneath the light pressure as they sunk deeper, but I felt no pain.
Mark gagged, watching me. Then he started sniffing the air like a lunatic, “Oh god that’s sick,” he said, “I was wondering what the smell was. You need a doctor.”
I didn’t respond, the cavern in my arm had left me speechless. I excused myself and headed for the restroom.
There I used the mirror to get a better look.
It wasn’t really that bad, the skin was fine around it, maybe a little pail, but otherwise, fine.
The hole itself was small, inside the flesh was black but there wasn’t any blood. A faint, rancid smell emanated from it.
I replaced the bandage and went back to work. It was just a little hole, Mark was over-reacting.
In the weeks that followed it began to get a little bigger- and a little deeper, but my arm still felt fine. It didn’t even hurt when I stuck my finger inside of it, but the smell was becoming a problem.
I could see the people around me scrunching up their faces, and wondering where the stench was coming from. At first, few realized it was me, I was alway very clean-looking, but eventually its strength made the source easier to pinpoint.
Someone, probably Mark, had complained about it to my boss, who called me into his office and told me to sort it out.
I started covering up the stench with different substances. I tried using a cotton swab drenched in alcohol, but it wasn’t completely effective.
Once, before a meeting at which I knew I would be in close proximity to others for an extended period of time, I resorted to using a small piece of lemon, but even that didn’t seem to do the trick and I was reprimanded a second time. But in my desperation the next morning I actually found a convenient solution, I filled it with toothpaste.
The label said that baking soda was a main ingredient in the arm-and-hammer kind that I used, and I think that’s why it worked so well at absorbing the odor. So every morning, as I got ready for work, I would squeeze the toothpaste into the opening until it was flush with my arm before I covered it.
There were no more complaints about the smell at my work. This solution, however, was quickly becoming expensive. It seemed like everyday the hole in my arm was absorbing more and more, and once I started going through over a tube a week, I knew it was unsustainable.
So I finally decided to see a doctor.
I live in a small town and the doctor I’ve had since I was a kid is an unreliable guy at best and a minor addict at worst, greatly assisting the spread of the opioid epidemic in his own small corner of the rural midwest. I made an appointment anyway because at this point I knew that I might have a problem. I’m not delusional.
That morning I didn’t fill the hole in my arm with toothpaste so it would be easier for him to see the inside.
The smell was terrible, and it made the drive there very unpleasant.
When I entered the waiting room and saw the lady at the desk immediately make a face and look me up and down, I knew I had made the right choice in coming to the doctor. If the smell had crossed the room that fast, who knows the problems it might cause for me in the day-to-day. She smiled and handed me the sign-in sheet, maybe it wasn’t that bad. I was probably just siking myself out.
Everyone in town knew about the wait times in Dr. Murphy’s office, they were so legendary that people had taken to bringing in thick novels and discreetly leaving them on the waiting room tables, as if they’d finished them. It was a very midwestern way to complain.
I was there barely a minute before being called back. The lady at the desk took my vitals with a tight smile and sent me to the exam room, where I was promptly met by Dr. Murphy.
“What seems to be the problem today?” he asked, but his eyes had already trailed to the gauze around my arm.
“This sounds silly,” I told him, “but I had a little cut on my arm, I don’t even know where I got it. -But now I think it’s infected,” when I started to remove the wrap, the smell got impossibly worse, “actually,” I acknowledged, “I’m pretty sure it’s infected.”
Dr. Murphy’s face twisted, repulsed by the thing on my arm. It was very unprofessional.
He looked at it, then at me, “son, are you feeling okay?” He asked.
The man was despicable, and I didn’t appreciate being patronized.
“I’m feeling fine,” I said, even if the hole in my arm was deep, its diameter was barely larger than my fist.
“Okay,” the man said, “let’s take a look.”
The way he moved towards me was hesitant, his disgust was clearly evident in his posture. He was a doctor for god’s sake, was he really incapable of handling such a small injury? It probably had something to do with the fact that he couldn’t just throw a prescription at me and send me on my way.
“Lay it up here,” he said, gesturing to the arm of the examination chair. I cautiously obliged, and when I did he started to pick at my arm with his sharp little tools.
I felt a tugging, tearing sensation, like peeling back a roll of packing tape. Dr. Murphy made a noise in his throat as I glanced at my upper arm.
He had peeled back the skin- the perfectly healthy skin. The skin of my upper arm was now dangling from his instruments like used tissue paper. There was a sickly, minty smell and I saw goops of dark-colored paste dripping onto the floor between us. I caught it in my hand and tried to rub it back into my arm. That stuff was expensive.
“What did you do?” I demanded, leaping from the chair.
Dr. Murphy, pale and speechless, watched me with horrified eyes, “calm down,” he pleaded, but how could I be calm when I could look down and see into the ligaments of my arm, the bunches of yellow fat and networks of capillaries, right down to the gleaming white bone.
“Get away from me!” I shouted, grabbing my gauze and recovering the area.
He was panicky now, “you need to get to a hospital,” he said, “I’m going to call an ambulance-”
“No way,” I interrupted, “I’m not going to sit here and let you take off the rest of my skin!”
I barged out of the examination room. He called after me, but I was already out the door.
The drive home was even worse than the trip there. The smell was horrid and when I opened the windows, the cold winter air sent a sharp pain through the newly exposed flesh.
That’s the medical system for you, for all of his fancy degrees the man had only managed to make the situation worse.
I stopped at the drugstore to pick up more toothpaste, but as I walked around I noticed looks from the other customers and even some of the workers. They whispered and pointed, in a way probably meant to be discreet, at the place on my arm where the gauze could not completely cover.
Why can’t people mind their own business, the smell wasn’t that bad!
I bought the toothpaste quickly, in such a hurry to be out of there that I didn’t even wait for my change.
The next Monday as I got ready for work, I found that not even an entire tube of toothpaste would cover up the smell. Thanks to Dr. Murphy, the rest of the flesh had started to peel and It had finally affected the mobility of my arm. I could barely twitch my fingers anymore. Worse, I think something might have gotten into it when I left it exposed on the way back from the office- maybe even in the office, the place was hardly sterile- I couldn’t be sure but I swear some of the white bits were wriggling around.
I knew what I needed to do if I wanted to keep my job. The arm had to go.
I called out sick. I know that doing it myself seems like a bad idea, but I hardly trust Dr. Murphy and it’s a fact that amputations aren’t hard to perform, especially since I don’t have any feeling in the arm.
Think of all the people who’ve had their arms sawn off on battlefields, at least no one will be shooting at me while I do it.
I told my boss I’d be out for a few days and he didn’t seem to mind very much. Hopefully he’ll understand why it was worth it when I get back in. It really isn’t that big of a deal.