Pesky Fly

I blew my brains out because of This. Damn. Pesky. Motherfucker of a Fly.

Now that’s a suicide note.

Watching the serenity of the golden-orange sunrise, as its rays stretched over the hill just outside my bedroom’s single-hung window, would’ve made this day the start of a feel-good romantic comedy novel. Would’ve. If I hadn’t only slept for 3 hours. No matter.

I relished in the hour of pure bliss.

Of course, that’s before I remembered that my dickhead husband had walked out two days ago without muttering a-single-fucking word.

He simply woke up, rolled off the living room couch, robotically walked right passed me with his eyes glazed over and fixed on the exit, a shadow who couldn’t hear me as I yelled, tugged, and allowed my body to be dragged across the hallway floor to the front exit as I hung to him, yanked his arm back, and left.

Left me on the floor.

Bitch motherfucker.

Maybe I’m wrong to be angry. After all it was his kid too.

Still if my dear sweet husband knew he would leave me - he could have been considerate enough to shut the fucking door faster before the Fat. Ugly. Fuckwit. Insidious. Fly got in.

I’ve lived with this fly for 48 hours. At first, it was fine, nice even, until I decided to get up off the floor to start work this lovely Monday morning.

The fly had now been circling my desk for precisely 5 hours, 23 minutes, and 53, 54, 55...

There is something harrowing about the irrational and uncontrollable anger that can stir up in a human’s heart from the irritation of the most minor insignificant but unreasonably consistent and persistent problem.

I watch it as it zigzags, up and down, and around the room, it goes like a nursery mobile. Circling, taunting, mocking me.

No wonder the kid cried when I turned the mobile on.

My chest starts tightening, my heart drops. I’m starting to feel nauseous.

This fly makes me So. Goddamn. Fucking. Mad.

I watch it disappear and reappear like my whore broad of an ex-stepmom who played peekaboo with me at age 11 to show my father how good she was with kids. Dumb bitch. As if I didn’t know she just got her bachelor’s degree and a rock the size of my mother’s car because she had boobs and an ass big enough to bury my dad’s midlife crisis. What a fucking cliché headline: college student and professor break up a marriage. Of course, once bored of his love in the afternoon playing Mr. Frank Flannagan, she too was kicked to the curb. And he managed to force up enough crocodile tears to crawl back to my mother, with his dick so low it was sweeping the dust bunnies off the porch she sat on for years waiting his return. She would’ve waited until she was dead, my mother. I’m glad she doesn’t have cats.

I wish I could say this only happened once throughout my lifetime. I love her. But I will never understand her. That’s probably why we’ll never be close. She did try though. Hard. She gets points for that.

I’m surprised I’m still close with dad. After all he’s done. After he’s modelled what my future relationships would be like.

Maybe that’s just it. I’m more like him. Aloof. Hard to please. Incapable of dealing with the beautifully shitty miserable vulnerable human experience.

“Ignore the shit, kid. Life is golden if you’re on drugs”

What a thing to say to your baby girl before she could walk. Ironically, the man never even let a beer bottle touch his lips.

The fly landed to the left of my laptop on my bright yellow notebook.

Ha- Try me bitch.

I slowly reach for the box of tissues, the closest thing I could find on my right. Carefully, I quietly creep the box over his miserable corpse. And slam it down as fast as I can.

I killed it.

Relief washes over my body.

You know, it’s amazing how much shit humans can deal with, but it’s a fly that will bring you down to your knees.

In triumphant victory, I prance over to make myself a cup of coffee before starting work again.

That stupid fly didn’t see it -

Then I heard it.

No.

Fuck me up. No.

With a sense of dread, I rush over and lift the box of tissues.

Nothing.

I listen as it snickers at my gullibility in the air. My head is pounding. I’m losing my mind.

Then.

The fucker lands on me.

I can’t really recount what happened in the 20 minutes of time between that, and me lying on the floor sobbing my eyes out- however, I can tell you that I’m suspecting the cops might show up at my door any minute now. No doubt, daddy’s-money-picket-white-fence-brown-nosed Janet called in a concerned neighbor’s a noise complaint and suspicion of possible domestic abuse. Unbeknownst to her, I’m perfectly capable of transforming our doll’s house into a wreck-it-rage-room on my own.

I don’t know how much time had passed since I closed my eyes. I feel the cool parquet flooring on my cheek. I hate this stupid parquet floor.

“I can’t believe you would settle for the ugliest flooring to ever have existed! It reminds me of Gam Gam’s old house, pour soul.” Wally’s laughter echoed through the autumn trees.

Sidenote - can you believe I married a man with the same name as a fucking Disney robot? I am so whipped.

“It’ll be easier to ensure every square inch of our shack is properly christened” I said with a wink.

My stomach aches at the memory. I might throw up.

The familiar sound of the fly circling my head.

I turn on my back to watch it. A disgusting waste of existence- it eats shit, and by consequence everything it lands on turns to shit. I guess we have that last part in common.

I watch as it as it hits and bumps itself into window after window.

“We’re stuck here. There’s no other way out.” I tell the fucker.

“The only escaping is with a gun!”

It seemed to have heard me for a moment as it lands on the counter.

But it’s unrelenting, flying over my head now toward the entrance of our shack. I sit up to watch.

And just its dumb luck, as the fly flew around the entryway, the front door had crept open, creating an exit over the handsome-coarse-dark-brown-puffy head of hair, that suddenly makes me glad he didn’t get that damn haircut I nagged him about for months, and it flew out of our home.

Lucky bastard.