Pandemonium

Gunner dug his nails into his forearm. The crawling was starting under his skin, like bugs. If he didn’t get a handle on it soon, the scribbles in his skull would come next — unwinding in their usual ache behind his eyes and finally worming to his brain. Everything after that would be pitch black, stuck with no way out in a tiny box. It had to be perfect; his bed had to be smooth.

He stepped back and stared hard at the futon he’d been sleeping on for a week. It was comfortable enough, but he fought with the top blanket all night to get it to fit over him. It was even worse trying to make the bed every morning. Too many days had passed since it was perfect. There were times when he longed for the front seat of Mom’s car; there was no bed to make, just a small square of space at his feet to keep clean.

“What even is this?” Gunner grabbed the tufts of frilly fabric off the mattress and held it up. The blanket wasn’t a complete square or any discernible shape. It seemed more fit for a child’s bed or a table. It appeared Nana had given him a tablecloth to sleep under instead of an actual blanket. He fanned it back out over the mattress and tried to tuck it around the edges. Maybe this time, it would fit. But the strain only made the back of his neck clammy beneath his long hair.

“Fuck it.” His shoulder blades ached. The itching was up to his elbows now. He tucked the human-sized doily under his arm and turned for the basement steps. There had to be normal blankets somewhere in this house.