Predator

I wrote this first story several years ago for a creative writing class that I took. I wrote it after the first day of class. My peers liked it better than anything else I wrote that quarter. It was definitely a fun one to write, mostly because it is based on true events. Enjoy.

Predator

I like my new haircut. I can feel every little breeze now that it has been shorn so close to my head. The rays of the sun warm it whenever I wander out of doors. People like to rub their hands over the short, spiky hairs. They say it feels good. I like the way it feels, too. For some reason, it is very relaxing and has a soothing effect, much like that of a massage. Overall, I am very pleased with the cut. I feel more in tune with the world around me, more sensitive to the little things.

Dammit. Shoo. Go away. Stupid fly keeps landing on my head. I know it’s landing there because I feel its little feet. Shoo. I wave my hand around like a crazy person. That’s what I get for trying to sit and relax on a Saturday. My parents wanted me to mow the lawn, but I said no way, this is my day off. I’m gonna sit here and chill. Man, was I wrong. Dumb fly, what are you doing inside anyway?

My dad walks into the room. Not knowing the extreme annoyance that I’m suffering through, he asks why I’m waving at nothing and talking to nobody. There’s a fly, I tell him. Kill it, he says. He claims to have killed several over the course of the summer. How many, I demand. He is very vague about the number, but adamant that it was a goodly sum. I don’t believe him. Probably more like one. It’s a slow day, however, so I go and grab the fly swatter from the top of the fridge.

Unfortunately, it is not a huge fly, but a rather puny little one. I creep through the family room, trying to track the tiny black speck as it zips through the air. It is virtually impossible to see it against the dark background of the unlit room. I lose track of it. Then it reappears. Then it’s gone again. Then it’s back, and gone. I give up in frustration and sit down.

Still holding the swatter, I sit and wait, surveying the most visible patch of space in the room. The light colored tile floor is an excellent backdrop. Suddenly, a much larger fly cruises into the zone I’m scrutinizing. Because it is bigger, it is easier to track. I leap to my feet, not caring that it’s a different fly. I’m after blood now and I won’t discriminate. All flies are created equally gross in my eyes.

I tiptoe after it, into the kitchen now. Its bloated black body is easy to follow. Short jagged hair adorns its twisted legs. Bulging green eyes explode from its grotesque body. Its wings beat a dull buzz into the air as it lazily weaves through the kitchen. I’m right behind it, following every move. My grip on the swatter uncompromised by the sweat that coats my palm.

As it crosses in front of a window, I slide closer. It lands. The sinister silhouette is only slightly warmed by the dim moonlight. With all possible stealth, I hover in as close as I can. Without warning, it skitters six inches across the glass, then stops, just as suddenly. I am motionless. Even my eyes don’t dare move. It moves another inch. Then the moment. Every predator knows the moment. Just before the kill there is a moment of peace, of perfect calm. Everything, for just a split second, is just the way it should be. All worries and concerns are meaningless, all wants and needs are fulfilled. The universe is in perfect harmony. But only for a split second. With a quick flick of my wrist, a light snap on the window, it is over. Nothing remains but a smear on the window. I examine the swatter to discover the crushed, mangled body of what was possibly the kinsman of the bane of my night.

With a feeling of triumph, I return to the chair I was occupying before the nuisance began. I tell my dad that I am a hunter and a killer. I show him the proof that he couldn’t show me. I wash off the swatter and the window under the orders of my mother. I once again sink into the chair, ready to finally relax and enjoy the evening. As I lean back, a familiar feeling returns to my newly shorn head. Damn.