ceciliatan

Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.

Ziggy was, in fact, in the men’s room. He was leaning over the sink, the giant-size Band-Aid he’d been wearing over the burn on his arm lying on the counter.

He was picking at a scab that looked like a thin slice of beef jerky glued to his arm, dark red and stiff. “The itching is driving me insane,” he said, then hissed as he pulled too hard on a segment. I could see he had already exposed about an inch of shiny pink skin.