There have been quite a few flies around recently. They hang about in seedy, recessed corners like little perverts. Constantly watching flesh, waiting for a moment of vulnerability. High pitched buzzing accompanies the landing, but this fly was too eager. I am aware of its presence on my flesh. I wait just long enough for the fly to insert its proboscis, focusing in on the exact spot it has made its landing. I feel it, the tiny and otherwise unnoticeable, sting of entry. I flex my calf muscle, pulling taut the skin the fly now finds itself trapped by, and I deliver a swift slap to my rear leg. A pin prick of stolen blood escapes.
Wait, flies don’t drink blood. Was that a mosquito? Maybe there actually haven’t been many flies about recently if I can make that mistake. Perhaps I am over-tired.
Upon stepping out of the kitchen I am greeted by an uncomfortably meaty smell. Wrinkles form between my nose and mouth as I, trapped by sick fascination, descend the kitchen steps and walk over to the flytrap.
“Don’t engage with it, why do you always engage?”
I stare into the black depths. Uncomfortably meaty. At least the sunshine hasn’t hit the bag yet, I probably wouldn’t be standing where I am now if it had. There is a slight churning of the fluid if you look close enough. The churning is caused by trapped flies. In my periphery I notice the light creeping up the wall to my right, time to make an escape. I head back up to the kitchen.
“I don’t know, it’s just gross.”
“Ja, exactly.”