A young girl returns from her travels abroad in South America, where she's been spending her days on an adventure tour, hacking her way through a jungle. Her family are pleased to see her, but her mother points out a worrying sore on the girl's cheek.
"Oh, don't worry about that," says the girl, "It's just a little bite."
But it's not just a bite. Over the next few weeks the wound gets worse. The girl doesn't really "believe" in going to a doctor. Instead she tries various creams and herbal applications, even homeopathy. Most important of all, she restrains herself from scratching. Sooner or later it will get better, she thinks.
So for weeks and weeks she leaves it alone, applies her creams, refrains from scratching. The wound gets worse. It turns swollen and red, and it gets itchier than ever. At last, the girl cannot stand it any longer. She reaches up and gives it a good, satisfying scratch.
But then the satisfaction gives way to pain, and she feels something slick under her fingers. She stumbles to a mirror. Blood is dripping down the side of her face. Mixed in there with it are hundreds of bright white maggots, wriggling and tumbling eagerly from the swollen flesh of her cheek.
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