Story based on characters created by and copyright to GAINAX. I don't owe Neon Genesis Evangelion, I never will.
Itch.
He laid the pen on the sheet he was writing, gritting his teeth. The itch had started again. Unyielding, implacable itch. He knew it was only a trick of his mind.
A dirty trick.
It was a kind of torture he had never imagined could exist.
It would start slowly, just a sensation of uneasiness on the back of his left hand. A negligible tickle of his nerves, but it would start to grow maliciously to slowly gain his full attention, braking his concentration, disrupting his work.
Growing subtle like a cancer, worming its way through his brain.
He tried to keep it away from his mind, busying himself in some task, but the itch only gained power the more he tried to ignore it.
Slowly, not only the back, but also the palm of his left hand would start to itch, then the itch would move between his fingers. The itch would then move on, from the hand to the wrist, as if the tissue of his jacket wasn't cotton, but wool.
He could feel his skin, red and irritated from the prolonged contact with his clothes. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine the redder skin. His right hand jerked slightly, trying to bring comfort to its companion, but he willed it to stop. It was useless.
Some sweat formed on his forehead. He knew that soon the itch will pass, the same way it arrived: unnoticed. He had just to resist some more time.
Without knowing how, he would be again perfectly fine, no more itches on his left hand. Ready to plan again.
Still, this was only one scenario, just a itch he couldn't scratch.
There was another scenario. After the itch, the pain could start. A throbbing pain, through his flesh, would the bone, then dull ache would settle in. He glanced the window of his office from the corner of his eyes.
It was a warm, sunny day, so it was likely that today the pain wouldn't come. The pain was paired with clouds and rain. But the itch was worse. Sometime he desired to smash his left hand hard against the desk, shattering his own bones with a stone, breaking, gnawing away his fingers in desperation, but he couldn't do so. He was ready for the pain: inside the first drawer of his desk there was a little bottle, filled with white pills. The best painkiller money can buy. He thought of them as a weakness, so he tried to avoid them. After his first serious encounter with the pain after the itch, he changed his mind. He didn't need distractions like pain. However, the pain was something he understood. It was an old friend visiting him again, the pain. Sorrow had been his companionship, never leaving him, but pain would just drop by for a quick visit, shoved away by his pills. He knew how to deal with pain, he knew how to deal with sorrow: there were ways to leave them behind, at least for a while. Still, sorrow would return sooner that pain. The itch was another question. Itch would last, not letting him off the hook. Pills weren't effective against it. Nothing was effective against his itch. As powerful as he was, it was a itch he couldn't scratch. An itch he wouldn't never be able to scratch, in his life. He adjusted his glasses on his nose with his right hand, then he laid both his elbows on his desk. Only then he remembered that he could no more join his hands together. Turning slightly his head, he looked at his left arm. Exactly where his left hand should have been, there was an empty space. Covered by his jacket, there was the stump of his left hand. Hidden under the sleeve, there was a clear cut, halfway between elbow and wrist. It had been a miracle he didn't die for blood loss when it happened. It had been the moment in which he thought he had lost everything forever. His eyes narrowed to tiny slits behind his glasses. The itch was a constant reminder that they still had to pay for having interfered with his carefully crafted plans. The itch was a constant reminder that he wasn't able to see her again, but soon, he would meet her again, forever. Soon, there will be no more itches, no more sorrow. The itch remembered him also that he hadn't been anough wise, but he learnt form experience. This time, he wouldn't be stopped. There was nobody left to stop him, as his son, the one who ruined everything, preceded him. His gaze softened. It had been a mere delay, a deviation from his plans. A punishment for his arrogance. "Yui," he whispered, as the itch slowly faded away.