Mosquito-Eater

A troubled narrator does whatever neccessary to get some sleep.

Mosquito-Eater

 

Anxiety and then an emotion best characterized by the almost whispered word ‘f**k’ take the reigns in my fatigued and dreamy mind. I had just experienced a rather pleasant gathering with my friends, where we slummed on the couches discussing the philosophies of our personalities while smoking hookah and drinking beer. Now, however, I was about to be trying to sleep, winding down if you will, which typically consists of mindlessly reading mindless things, such as s****y Buzzfeed or not-so-s****y Reddit. I was almost done with my cycle, roughly becoming dozy at 1:36a.m., when a great annoyance was made aware to me. Out from behind the lampshade flew a mosquito-eater. Fluttering. Fluttering. Fluttering.

            My room was quite sizeable, larger than any other room I had ever had. She had wooden floors and a faded sea green wall. The windows were large with gorgeous curves and elaborate patterns, letting in the beautiful natural light in the day and the rather ominous moonlight at night--casting the shape of the windows on the wall to help entertain any dark thought that might cross ones mind while trying to fall asleep. It is a sort of beautiful horror, one of the many this ancient relic of a house had to offer. The house belongs to an area of Spokane known as Browne’s Addition: a melting pot of charismatic hipsters, contemptuous oldies, and enigmatic druggies. Being night now, the room was lit by a single low light lamp on my bedside table, offering with the moonlight just enough light to see the outline of things and just enough shadow to obscure them. The immense wooden floor was dressed in Indian rugs, as was my bed and bedside table. I loved India and my room reflected that. It was from the single lit lamp on my bedside table dressed in an Indian tapestry that he emerged. Fluttering. Fluttering. Fluttering.

            I gave myself the proper amount of time to mourn the inconvenience before getting up to deal with him. By now he was working his way through the air towards the ceiling. I was up now, still in a T-shirt and jeans. My eyes had followed his movements since he vacated the lamp, but somewhere along getting up and grabbing my wallet I lost sight of him. I was now scanning the entirety of the ceiling and walls for him with an excruciatingly intense focus. Despite being the obvious predator in this war of man versus insect, I was suspicious of an attack from his end. I was exposed and very aware of my skin and any feeling or itch suggested that he was there to bite me, causing my hand to swing at the area in question. He must’ve laughed to see me swinging at myself like a simple giant.

Then, while standing in the center of the room, body tense and hand gripping the wallet, I spotted him by the ceiling. Fluttering. Fluttering. Fluttering. I flung my wallet up at him, like an ape throwing his own s**t, except I didn’t hit him; I only hit the ceiling, making a noise too loud for my ears, which were well adjusted to the night’s silence. I scrambled to where my wallet had landed and picked it up, preparing for my next attack. He was still up at the ceiling so I flung it again, this time hitting him, and the ceiling. The force of my throw was so strong that, when hitting the ceiling, my wallet ejected its cards all over the floor. I picked up the cards and placed them back in the wallet, regretting using it as a weapon, before looking for the body. I looked at the section of floor where I watched him fall, but I couldn’t find him. It was no good, the thought that I killed him, unless I found his body. I decided I must’ve only stunned him and, while recovering my wallet, he recovered himself and fluttered away. My determination, my obsession, motivated me now, and I knew I would not rest until I found him and killed him dead.

Deciding that the wallet made for a poor weapon, I went for a different approach and grabbed my favorite novel, The Old Man and The Sea. It was during this transition period that I yet again lost his trace and was again scanning the room for anything with a flutter. The room seemed to darken, but my vision was unaffected. I could feel his mind, his will, sinning against me.

Ah hah! I spotted him. He was now on the wall above my bed, where a strange event occurred. He seemingly spoke into my consciousness, telling me that he wasn’t real. I’ve never known him to be telepathic, but I’ve never known myself to be insane either. I entertained the idea for a moment, contemplating, wishing even, that he were right; the only thing that gave him away was that I could see him, still and calm on the wall in front of me, undeniably; the notion now drove me to anger. I jumped on the bed and rage-swung at him with The Old Man and The Sea and hit him, but the hit was slightly botched, and, instead of squishing him on wall, I watched his perceivable corpse fall to the ground behind my end table. I jumped down and dropped to my hands and knees with terrible haste and searched behind the end table. Once again I have been deceived! Pontius Pilate! Brutus! I cursed loudly, for passion and bloodlust were gravitating inside my mind, seeking any weaker will to suck into its demonic atmosphere. Black holes existed there, but I’ve known that since I was a boy. Focus. Focus, oh man. There is still a fight to fight, I believe.

Having failed to find him, I was now alone in the room for what seemed the entirety of August. I was quietly pacing with a viscous focus, haunted by shadows mourning the attention of my foe. Where was he, anyways? He seemed to have left. But out where? The door? No, it was shut. The window? Also shut. Was he dead somewhere? Doubtful, I searched for his body, and there was no trace. I wondered about much, but I didn’t let the inner thoughts distract the outer ones. My body was alive, ready to strike with vigor unknown to the rational. I instinctually knew all I needed to know. It was then that he revealed himself to me once again. I gazed over at the bookshelf in the corner of my room and from the top, where my cross and Buddha statue are, he emerged. Fluttering. Fluttering. Fluttering.

“Damn you!” I threatened with a red rage, as I charged him. I ran at him, as fast as I can in a confined room, and chucked The Old Man And The Sea at him with a violent outward flick of my wrist. Nothing but loose pages fell to the floor. I grabbed another book, any book, and it was Miracles by C.S. Lewis. Ha! I laughed a full-out laugh, which ended as abruptly as it started. Focus. He was traversing the air in my room towards the lamp where he first emerged. I saw him returning to his first love: his light. No, it’s my light, I remembered. Nevertheless, there he was headed. After the journey, he stopped to rest on the wall above the lamp. “Critical mistake,” I told him as I foresaw my attack. It was natural; he was lesser. So I again flung myself at him and gave him a whack, which embodied all the strength and hatred I had, and he fell softly behind the end table.

I searched for my prize, my well-deserved victory: my trophy. Knowing without a doubt that this time I had dealt him a blow too powerful to survive, I searched with confidence. But that confidence soon dwindled with every second that escaped me, for his body’s location also escaped me. I couldn’t find him, which was a blow too much to handle. The warm confidence of success was now completely vacant to a cold uncertainty in my own mind. I desperately searched. The thought “Was he not real?” came as a whisper in my mind. I could feel my mental stability deteriorating as I considered the repetitive progression of events I had just experienced: I saw him, I hit him, I couldn’t find him, repeat. I began to doubt myself, becoming passive to my own uncertainty. I felt and feared the cold grip of madness. Was I losing myself? A cold, nervous sweat broke across my forehead. At the brink of panic, I felt a warm rushing wave of reassurance come over me as I saw him. I disregarded my previous feelings, holding on to the affirmation that seeing his body brought. I was desperately relieved. There he lied, dead and cold on the floor, his body fixed in the cringe of death. I lamented his loss before grabbing a napkin and giving him the proper send of his brothers: flushing him down the toilet. I let out a deep exhale. It was finally over, and I was relieved. I returned then to my bed, in my large room dressed in Indian tapestries. I turned the lamp off and clung to the relief as I tried to sleep. But sleep did not come. And relief did not stay. In my mind, in the dark vacancy within me, I could feel his presence taunting me. Fluttering. Fluttering. Fluttering.

Author's Note

1. What do you think about the narrator's development?
2. What does the mosquito-eater represent to the narrator?
3. The setting and plot is small, do you find the reader's interest to be sustained?
4. What genre would you consider this work to fall under?
5. Any other comments/issues?

Please give specific feedback, and as always thank you!