Chicago, on a winter morning, the air was chilly but dry. On a stone bench at the corner of the schoolyard, Alyssa sat curled up, one arm clutching her backpack, the other hand scratching her nose repeatedly, as if caught in an uncontrollable reflex. Alyssa, stop scratching, you’re bleeding, whispered Eleanor, one of the few classmates who still talked to her, her eyes filled with worry and fear. I. I can’t take it, Alyssa moaned, her voice muffled like someone with a cold.
It feels like something is crawling inside my nose. A streak of bright red blood ran down her lip. Eleanor instinctively stepped back.
The school bell rang. The children rushed inside, but Alyssa remained seated, her face pale, eyes dark with exhaustion. The itching had started when she was six.
At first it was just a mild discomfort, but over time it became a relentless obsession that didn’t ease despite visits to dozens of doctors ranging from private clinics to major hospitals. It could be chronic allergic rhinitis, one doctor suggested. No, I believe it’s a sensory nerve disorder, another shook his head.
There’s nothing to worry about. Some kids go through this phase and grow out of it, concluded a third. But it never went away.
The itching grew more intense, spreading up the bridge of her nose, followed by headaches and dizziness. Worse still, Alyssa frequently had nosebleeds at night. What’s wrong with that girl? She keeps sniffing all the time, a boy asked loudly in class, making everyone laugh.
E.W. Don’t sit near her, the girl shouted. Soon, Alyssa was completely isolated. No one in class would sit next to her.
At lunch, she always ate alone. The teachers, annoyed, believed she was making things up for attention. You need to be more serious, Alyssa.
No one scratches their nose constantly because something’s crawling inside, said her homeroom teacher, Ms. Catherine, coldly. I’m not making it up. It’s real.
I can feel it like, like something alive. Alyssa sobbed. Ms. Catherine shook her head inside.
You need to see a psychologist. Things were even worse at home. Their small apartment on the fourth floor of a Brooklyn complex was always quiet and cold.
Alyssa’s stepmother, Martha, was rarely home, and when she was, she barely spoke more than a few words to Alyssa. Their relationship was more like that of a boss and a maid. That afternoon, as Alyssa walked through the door, Martha shouted.
Go clean the kitchen. I’m not your damn maid. I. I’m a little tired.
I had a nosebleed at school this morning. Tired. Making up crap again.
Why don’t you just drop dead already? Alyssa froze. She bit her lip, dried blood crusted around her nostrils. She simply nodded and quietly walked to the kitchen.
That night, as she was mopping the floor, the itching surged like furious waves under her skin. She dropped the mop, sat down on the floor, and clawed desperately at both sides of her nose, her head spinning. What now? Martha stormed out from the living room, belt in hand.
I. I can’t breathe, it’s, it’s moving inside my nose. Alyssa screamed. Whack.
The belt lashed across her back, a burning sting like fire. Shut up. You’re such a drama queen.
No one pities a lunatic. No one defended her. The neighbors heard the yelling but remained silent.
Martha was the kind woman everyone greeted, who smiled and said she loved Alyssa very much, but the poor girl was a bit troubled. Once, Alyssa tried telling her biology teacher, Ms. Teresa, an older woman who paid close attention to her students. Ms. Teresa, my nose, it’s not normal.
I feel like there’s something inside it, like, like it’s alive. Ms. Teresa squinted. Are you serious? Does it hurt? Yes, and I get nosebleeds too.
I can’t sleep most nights because of it. Ms. Teresa paused, then spoke seriously, I’ll talk to the school doctor. But don’t mention this to anyone else, okay? Or they’ll say you’re making things up again.
Alyssa nodded. She felt a tiny glimmer of hope, faint but real. The following week, City Child Services personnel came to the school.
They interviewed Alyssa privately. Is there anything you’d like to share? Has anyone at home hit you? asked a woman named Laura, her voice gentle. Alyssa nodded slightly, scratching her nose continuously.
My stepmother, she hits me, starves me. But the more important thing is, there’s something very strange in my nose. Laura blinked.
Can you explain that? I feel it, moving. When I scratch, I can sense it contracting. It feels like, a creature.
Laura exchanged a glance with her colleague and jotted something down. The conversation ended quietly. A few days later, Martha showed up at school, smiling brightly.
I heard someone reported that Alyssa was being abused. That’s ridiculous. She’s had a history of imaginary thinking since she was little.