PART TWO: THE BOY
KILLER OF FLIES
Daylight.
It is on one side.
They are on the other.
And, there is something in between.
They tap their jointed legs at it again and again.
They circumnavigate every edge.
They seek a gap, crack or opening.
None exists.
They leave the filtered warmth of the light.
Fly away.
Head into the dark.
But, not too deep.
They don’t dare.
They tell themselves there is nothing there.
They bank.
Turn.
Come back around.
They cannot resist the daylight’s siren sound.
They dive.
Pick up speed.
Hit the something in between.
Buzz spasmodically.
Settle in.
Start tapping again.
They seek the exit.
It is behind them.
Into and through the dark.
This they cannot accept.
Speck by speck.
They soil the something in between.
Speck by speck.
Daylight retreats.
Gives way to a suffocating shit-stained shroud of unhappiness.
They are trapped.
He is too.
He creeps low and slow.
He grips a newspaper in his hand.
It is tightly twisted at the bottom and fanned at the top.
It is a design that is well thought out.
He holds it like a sword.
But, it is no Excalibur.
Saliva fills him mouth.
He swallows it away.
He knows not to hesitate.
He swings.
Smacks the something in between.
He swings.
Wings tear.
Thoraxes collapse.
Dismembered legs begin to twitch.
He swings.
Antennas snap.
Abdomens disembowel.
Compound eyes crackle to a popping sound.
He stands alone.
Flies buzz about.
Circle him.
He surveys his benighted kingdom.
His rule is malignant.
Fueled by his insignificance.
He does onto his subjects what others have done onto him.
Without any repercussions.
Except for those ants.
They let him have it.
But, not the pill bugs.
They are like him when he is outside his kingdom.
They just curl up.
He turns the newspaper over in his hand.
Pretty places he will never see are smeared in guts, blood and feces.
Pretty people he will never be.
He counts the carcasses in between their teeth.
He is just a boy.
He kills flies.
He is good at it.
Getting better.
But, he is not satisfied.
He wants to kill more.
He wants to beat his high score.
He waits.
They will return.
They always do.
They don’t go too deep.
They don’t dare.
The dark will send them back.
Sure enough, he is correct.
He creeps forward.
Leans in close.
Closer to them than ever before.
He sees colors.
Brilliant, shimmering colors.
He watches them rub their feet back and forth.
First their front.
Then their back.
Now, they stroke them up, over and around their heads.
He hears humming.
No.
He hears more.
He hears whispering words.
“Flies are pollinators.”
He pops up straight.
Seeks the speaker.
Peers out of the window.
Only the corner.
Never the center.
A streak of gold catches his eye.
It stretches across the sky.
His newspaper sword falls to the floor.
He grabs the handle of the garage door.
He twists.
Lifts.
The door does not cooperate.
He uses both hands.
Lifts.
The door says try again.
He jerks.
He yanks.
Window panes shake.
Panic sets in.
He creates binoculars with his hands.
The streak of gold dissipates.
He gasps.
Seizes the handle.
Garners all of his strength.
He breaths.
He heaves.
The door grants him an opening.
But, just a gap.
No more.
He presses his chin against the oil-stained floor.
A line of light highlights the blue of his eyes.
His hands grip the swirls in the concrete drive.
He pulls.
He squirms.
He worms.
A sliver of steel cuts his back.
The sting jolts him under and out.
He gets up.
Dusts himself off.
Fingers the hole in his Pac-Man shirt.
Barking dogs.
Chain link fences.
A golden globe in a distant tree.
He steps towards it.
