I had the windows open this morning, while I wrote. And while in a daze, wondering whether to throw in a few fifty-buck words just to piss off Hemingway, I became aware of a buzzing.
A buzzing, a rustling, a frantic hum, coming from behind the curtains where they were bunched up. And when I went to have a look, it was an insect, bouncing around behind there. Frantic with captivity, wings flickering and building up to an aggressive whine if it didn’t find the exit bloody quick.
A fly. A fly! OH GOD A FLY! I ran and grabbed household antibacterial spray, found fly spray in the cupboard under the sink, ran back and MACED THAT FUCKER.
Then I got a bit of a closer look, once I’d calmed down, and it was all still and quiet and deaded.
Oh, but it wasn’t a fly. It was a beetle. A harmless beetle, just faintly wobbling one feeler as he wobbled off this mortal coil. Damn it. I’d jumped to conclusions, freaked out a bit, gone into battle: and now one poor beetle had paid the price. He’d probably come in on a bike or a jacket earlier in the day. He didn’t mean no harm, honestly guv!
And now, hours later, I still feel just crummy about it. Oh, poor Mr Beetle, I feel absolutely awufl. I’m so sorry.
Image – Fowler, W. W. (William Weekes), 1849-1923; Donisthorpe, Horace St. John Kelly, 1870, public domain.