Tuesday, October 12, 2010

The Fly and the Light

My light flickers slightly. I assume my body is reminding my mind it needs to rest. I look towards the ceiling. The light causes my eyes to water and narrow. I can see movement.

It's a fly.

I squint, to restrict the light. It's a juvenile. It crawls, takes to air for only a second, then lands. I look around for something, anything to catch the mess. I've already decided it will die. It is not harming, bothering or even near me. I don't need to think, it should not be here.

I move towards the fly. My eyes watering from the intensity of the light.

I lose focus.

I turn my head, cursing quietly and blink back tears. I take a few steps backward. It is now at the side of the light. Moving slowly.


I know it doesn't have the capacity to make such mocking movements, but I hate it just a little more.

I lean against the door, watching the fly's oblivious march from the sanctuary of light into inevitable death. I see a tiny garden spider run across the wall to my right. I slam the side of a clenched fist into it... hard. I wipe the mess on my pants and lean back on the door. The fly hasn't moved. It has stopped. I feel it's compound eyes studying me. It can't be thinking. It can't.

The light still hurts my eyes. They start to feel heavy.

I it off and lie in bed. The darkness engulfs me and I slip away.

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