Bloody Murder

I lie awake in my room, envisioning murder of the most satisfying sort when sleep dares not disturb my wrath.  There’s blood on my hands.  It glows with the sweetness of melted, watermelon Dum-Dums.  I have had a taste of vengeance, and it leaves my throat parched, my tongue searching the corners of my cheeks for more morsels of delicious revenge (or that tiny piece of paper from the Dum-Dum stick; I hate when that happens).

Am I tired?  Will I rest?  The sanguine stain on my palms will not forgive another slip in judgment.  I should have turned on my electric mosquito-repeller before bed.  I should have closed the front door with more alacrity.  I should have cast that dark incantation I’ve been studying since the days of my rubbing alcohol-ridden youth, when I realized that the summer plague of miserly bloodsuckers had a preference for my hemoglobin; an incantation to make all of their spiny mouths rounded and useless—fodder for the perturbed public.  I hear the intruders again.  I hold my hands in front of my nose, breathing deeply to lure them into my Adonis-flytrap:  two waiting palms translating the violence of my sculpted chest into a fierce, sudden clap of thunder.

There’s two left.  They circle the area where their comrade was squished into watermelon-y oblivion, fat with the lifeblood of an angered mosquito-killing pro.  Come, my darlings.  I offer you release from your miserable pilgrimage to awaken defenseless sleepers with high-frequency humming and large, rosy welts that itch unless you scratch them exactly the right way, not dragging your fingernails over them, because that just makes them itch more, but gliding your nails around the edge of the irritated area several times until you can calmly examine whether or not you need to drag your ass out of bed to look for rubbing alcohol that you used up 7 months ago and that you never remember to buy at the grocery store, finally settling with dabbing some cool water on it before stubbing your toe on the doorstop on the way back to bed.  Fuckers.  I mean, darlings.

Losing your temper only gives them the advantage of a hasty attack.  No, there will be patience with my vengeance.  The Adonis-flytrap has been laid.  The first challenger zips in front of my forehead, casting small circles in the air, searching for an opening.  I clap my hands around it’s annoying form, sending it to what I hope is the Mosquito Hell:  where everything is ripe with red juices rippling through slender membranes as far as the mosquitoes can fathom with their stupid brains, but their suckers bend with every attempt to pierce the surface, so they bang their heads against their hunger until they all go insane and begin tearing into each other to try and partake of their own flesh.  Which seems kinda fucked-up.  But it’s 4:30a.m., dammit.  Stumbling through an eight-hour workday on four hours of sleep is also a form of Hell.

In my elation at my second kill, I jump out of the covers and try to go for a mosquito kill streak.  I chase the last one up to the ceiling light, anxious to return to gorgeous slumber, drooling with images of a merciless victory.  I strike; a roll of thunder follows my attack.  I open my palms to reveal only two squished bodies.  I’ve missed.

Wait.  I search the comforter around my feet—and there she is:  stunned, blind, helpless.  I pick her up by the wings, hold her to the light, a savage grin crossing my lips.  I envision pulling her body apart limb by hated limb.  I carry her to the bathroom sink, preparing for a messy fifteen seconds of euphoria.  Then I catch my reflection in the mirror.

Am I tired?  Will I rest?

Bags hang raggedly from my red eyes.  Slobber trails a slim line to my chin.  A glorious light radiates from my ripped pecs.  And I feel a softness growing in me.  The mosquito struggles in my grip, fighting desperately for another chance at life.  I contemplate the importance of all living things, weigh the impact of sustaining a species, consider the harm I inflict every day on the environment as I absorb nutrients into my brilliant body in the pursuit of Narcissism.

I lay her in my hand, and swiftly smash her into little mosquito bits.  Some things cannot be forgiven.  Waking me up a full three hours before I had to be up for work only to bother the shit out of me for two days with an irritating mosquito bite is one of those things.  I am not without mercy, though.  Her death was instant.

I crawl back into bed, lamenting the interruption of my precious sleep cycle, and listen for signs of another intruder in the darkness.  I can no longer tell what’s real and what’s simply my hyper-stimulated imagination fabricating the frequency of mosquito wings.

I am tired, though I will have no rest.  The satisfaction of bloody, mosquito murder is the only thing that comforts my sore eyes.  That, and nostalgic thoughts of Dum Dums.  Damn, those things are good.

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