Going, Going, Gone

There was no turning back. Imenes was gone--his guts were spread grotesquely amidst the impeccably glistening silver surface of the fridge, yet something kept my legs glued to the innocent marble surface of the dining table. Maybe I was recounting our narrow escapes from death, or the superfluous wisdom he would always embark on me, but I could not will myself to move. Stuck gazing upon the atrocity lay before me, the memories hurled at me like a brick-- concretely and painfully.

“Red, if you want to live, you must think of yourself, no one else. The life we live is ephemeral, especially if we interact with our predators, the humans,” Imenes spat with such an edge of repulsion that a sharp chill raced down my exoskeleton. At times like these, I felt a maddening indignation toward the universe for cursing my form of existence in the physical world. As a two winged, six-legged, five-eyed, nine- millimeter long, fly of the Diptera order--not the primate-- I felt helpless. It was the first time we were stuck on the other side of the fridge. Lured by the bounty of foods before us, we raced to beat the swinging door, but once it clicked shut, the lights switched off and we realized that our mission had gone astray. As the cold engulfed us, we were kept from ravaging through the jackpot we had discovered. I was feeling myself succumb to the particular eternal “sleep,” but Imenes’s words pulled me back. At that moment, the lights switched on and we dashed past the familiar primate for our escape. I had tried to assimilate his advice, but I knew, within a matter of minutes, or hours, it wouldn’t matter.

Imenes had been around longer with many adventures to share in his deck. His survival to this point had been a wonder, given his overwhelmingly selfless and daring temperament. Countless times he had pushed me aside to take the brunt force of the human hand as it swung to us away. He had been my only companion, taking me under his wings soon after I first wandered into this house. From the beginning, I have always been paranoid, but Imenes found exhilaration in our transient lives--the short bursts of adrenaline, before the subsequent memory loss. Any rush he could get to feel as if we had some purpose, any purpose in this form, like a fly. It was the answer none of our predecessors have been able to offer: what our purpose was. Maybe it had been the age wearing him away, but today, the swatter had finally claimed his life.

I snapped to my senses. I felt a brush of the violent wind approaching me, signaling one thing-- the swatter was still ravenous and eager for seconds. I didn’t know much, but I knew that I wouldn’t allow the swatter to claim my life as well. Quick to react, I flew in the opposite direction from the vibrant red plastic that came for me.

Flying until I felt my wings were giving in, satisfaction followed with the gentle atmosphere I had discovered in the corner bedroom of the house, farthest from the kitchen. It was a room of white with a clean desk, a bed with a rose pink comforter, and, most importantly, a bookshelf that radiated chaos. It was full of books thoughtlessly shoved into different spaces and positioned in the most creative ways, a multitude of trinkets of different sizes and shapes, and a plethora of unorganized miscellaneous objects. The nooks and crannies of the assembled features gave way to make for an ideal spot for shelter-- Imenes had taught me that. I felt a painful pang in my small heart. I remembered the sight of his motionless limbs positioned in unnatural angles. Effacing Imenes from my memories would take a lot more than merely moving on. Imenes was my pillar. He kept me upright; he was my emotional support and without him, I could feel myself quickly collapsing. Defeated, I settled in the corner of one of the shelves next to the window, blankly drifting off with the waning light of the day.

Waking up to the same dark sky, I got up and began to fly around the new location I had staked as my own. I needed to prepare myself for the swatter’s reprisal. I gracefully avoided the slumbering form of the beast on the flowery comforter. I could tell the resting girl wasn’t the culprit, but she was, without a doubt, related to him. I resolved to make sure not to let my guard down, nor would I make known my presence.

Hours passed after daylight broke when the girl climbed out of her bed. The creature that represented a multitude of natures-- both evil and complex. She rushed for the easel, upon which she clumsily placed her gloomy canvas. Being a fly, we came from different worlds. They were cruel vicious beasts that killed aimlessly. Their lagging cumbersome moves were insufferable, bothersome, and quite amusing at best. But, the long, dark, hours of the night filled with isolation and a deep longing tampered with my impressionable, guarded shell. The dark hues of her painting invited me in, and despite the warnings, Imenes had given, my wanting to escape the lasting agony of his death rendered the canvas irresistible.

When I landed on her painting, I relinquished my self-control. The texture of the paint on the palette felt smooth, yet stubbornly thick. I stuck my legs into the hot pink oddity on her gloomy palette and transferred it onto the blank space. Continuing to do this until I had a sufficient amount to work with. Then, dragging my feet across the canvas, I began to fill the space. Over and over again, using my feet as a makeshift paintbrush.

I moved to a different spot to continue my work until, to my surprise, the girl’s wide mop brush came straight in my direction. I quickly flew away, in a state of shock. Sensing the danger was not yet succeeded, I relocated; however, the brush moved with me: when I flew up, it went up, when I flew down, it went down. I was beginning to believe that she was not as clumsy as I had initially thought. The faster I flew, the faster it moved-- the brush showed no sign of stopping.

As a last resort, I flew up, as high as my wings would take me, landing on the sun. The bright, hot lamp that resided in the corner of the girl’s room would surely burn me alive if I stayed any minute longer, and thus I gingerly floated down, praying the girl would go back to painting her piece. All the while, woefully regretting giving into my grieving impulses; for failing Imenes and not following his last order: don’t get caught.

The past chain of events played out before me. Imenes had been a victim to the red fly swatter that had followed a high-pitched, blood-curdling scream of sheer terror. Moments later the swatter would never fail to make an appearance, and whenever the swatter was out, death was a guarantee.

Desperate to prove fate wrong once again, I flew into the hallway of the house, when the girl finally decided to let out a brief shriek. Finally awake to the significance of Imenes’ warnings and ready to live his legacy among the flies of the house and do the things that he never had the chance to, I thanked the late reaction from the stunned female as I made my escape. I realized I wasn’t ready to just surrender to their greater forces and give them the satisfaction of my death. I could see the answer to our existential question was coming into view. I turned the corner.

What I saw made me stop in my tracks. It was a whole family of them. I was filled with pure horror. Their limbs hung, long and ominously, their stance shifting to catch the prey. As I locked eyes with Imenes' murderer and his accomplice, their eyes narrowed and they locked their target onto my small stature. I could smell death in the air. From behind, a new child, the true accomplice revealed the swatter, an action overshadowed by the demented grin plastered across his face, and passed it to the murderer. Gazing up at that red sheet of plastic that waved back and forth, giving off a soft wind in preparation, I surrendered to the fatalistic nature of my existence and accepted the inevitable. While it was about to fulfill its own purpose once again, I said my prayers to Imenes--dearly beloved, courageous, and dead--rueful that I could never find my own.