MOONLIGHT BUZZING

Ali, the Captain, and the mosquito, a ten-hour-old wanderer, connected by the fragile thread of their shared space, yet worlds apart in their awareness and purpose.

A mosquito hovered through a bedroom window of the furthest room in the Western Apartments. The dim moonlight revealed Ali, hunched over at his writing desk, his brow furrowed in concentration. The desk was littered with notebooks and loose sheets of paper filled with handwritten scribbles. His gnarled fingers clutched a worn pen, its nib stained with ink, as he attempted to wrestle his thoughts onto the pages.

Ali’s room was a shadowy sanctuary of solitude, shrouded in the silvery embrace of moonlight that filtered through half-closed blinds and a vanilla-scented candle that was overweighed by the heavy air of aged leather and the faint lingering aroma of extinguished cigarettes. At the center of the room, an antique wooden bed with mahogany posts loomed like a fortress. It was strewn with a tangled mass of faded blood-stained bed sheets and threadbare blankets that had seen better days. Nearby was a wooden nightstand, its surface cluttered with dust, old receipts, used matchboxes, and mosquito corpses. A battery-powered electric racket, its wires frayed with use, rested beside a half-empty can of insect repellent. A small, moth-eaten mosquito net draped over one corner of the bed, evidence of Ali’s futile attempts at protection.

Ali noticed the mosquito as it scanned the room, looking for a spot. It was 3:23 AM; Ali watched the mosquito and stood up towards it. The female mosquito surveyed the room and landed on a smelly pocket of one of the army-green jackets hanging on the wall. She immediately regretted her choice, holding her breath. His dark, massive body loomed over her tiny, fragile form, pacing back and forth. If only his large, pale palms could snatch her. Ali fantasized about suffocating and tormenting her, tearing her wings apart and splitting her delicate thorax. He wondered how tiny mosquitoes must be; seemingly full of the blood they’ve taken.

Meanwhile, from the mosquito’s perspective, the room was a maze of towering obstacles. The feeble moonlight cast long, eerie shadows that danced across the room, making every piece of furniture appear like monstrous silhouettes. The mosquito’s tiny antennae quivered with anxiety as she navigated the treacherous terrain of Ali’s bedroom.

She observed Ali’s sporadic movements from her precarious vantage point just above the pocket. The rickety nightstand loomed like a colossal mountain, its surface an impenetrable fortress of unknown dangers. The mosquito sensed a shift in the air as Ali’s breath rose and fell, each exhalation a reminder of his presence.

Her heart fluttered with equal parts fear and determination. She knew that surviving in this room, with its hidden perils and the watchful Ali, was a daunting task. The scent of repellent, the metallic tang of mosquito blood wafted from the nightstand, and the gut-wrenching smell from inside the pocket made her throat sore, adding to the room’s sinister atmosphere.

Ali contemplated extracting and injecting the mosquito’s blood into his own veins, seething with the thought. Instead, he clenched his teeth, the blood splattered on his cream walls from previous massacres serving as a testament to his frustration.

Scenes from earlier in the day flashed in the female mosquito’s mind, but being told to wait for her brother lingered the most. She cursed human beings and resorted to saying her final prayers. Ali, licking his bottom lip already shredded to a bright red by evening gin, approached. If only she had survived a bit longer to have a number attached to her identity. She wouldn’t live long enough to get a role in her pit, and no one would remember her as part of the tribe. She sighed and quivered at her insufferable destiny.

As Ali moved closer, she braced herself but still didn’t fly. Suddenly, as Ali’s palms enclosed her vulnerable frame, another mosquito, 19304221-45664333, joined the scene, proudly displaying its filled belly. The female mosquito glared at her brother, realizing he had already feasted before her. She shook her head at her own foolishness, waiting until 3 a.m. to arrive when intoxicated fools like Ali were active.

The walls, once pristine cream, now bore the scars of countless battles – streaks and splatters of dried mosquito blood, like grotesque murals, marked the otherwise unadorned surfaces. The female mosquito admired 19304221-45664333’s ability to be entirely unbothered by the marks on the wall as he flew past. Ali exclaimed, “Another one?!” Seizing the opportunity, the female mosquito spread her wings toward a Deftones poster on the far wall. She observed her brother’s favorite hiding spot. Just as she was about to escape, Ali reached for his cigarette box in the pocket of his work jacket.

Panicking, the mosquito forgot to fly, her tiny wings trembling with anxiety. For a ten-hour-old mosquito, she was incredibly slow and forgetful, her inexperience evident in every hesitant movement. Inadvertently, his index finger dragged her back into the pocket.

Ali lit his cigarette and exhaled loudly. Seeing the embroidered “Capt. Ali J” on the jacket’s chest pocket served as a stark reminder that he had to train cadets in a few hours from now. His responsibilities as a captain in the military were never far from his mind. It was a simple yet potent reminder of the dual life he led—one as a dedicated writer and another as a disciplined military leader. She desperately flitted about the pocket, searching for an escape route as Ali remained preoccupied with the urge to finally publish the book he’s worked on for seven years, now oblivious to her presence.

The mosquito was submerged in the pocket’s foul odor, an overwhelming blend of sweat, stale cigarettes, and the lingering scent of alcohol. It was a nauseating mixture that assaulted her delicate senses. She sobbed silently, her tiny form quivering, unable to hold back the tears that formed within her minuscule eyes. She wondered how anyone could call such a place home. The smell threatened to suffocate her, and she longed for the fresh air she once took for granted.

Her heart sank at her brother’s indifference to her plight. The thought that she may never see the gray suit her big sister was painstakingly crafting for her weighed heavily on her fragile soul. Despite her sister taking ten play breaks, she had presumed how it would complement her wings perfectly. The possibility of never wearing it, of never fulfilling her sister’s vision, filled her with despair. However, her despair was soon replaced with jealousy. The fact that this suit could have actually been in crafting for a long time and the realization that whoever is present when it’s finished would be the one to wear it drained a quarter of her breath.

She stumbled upon a dead mosquito, let out a cry, and smelled the fishy stench in the pocket. She was going to die just like this mosquito. Ali lit his cigarette once again, threw the lighter, and reached for the pocket again. The mosquito realized her only chance was to escape. She must live.

As she continued to navigate the oppressive pocket, her emotions shifted from fear to resignation. The hope of escape dwindled with each passing second, and the realization set in that her short life might come to an end in this wretched, foul-smelling enclosure.

An odor wafted through the room, assaulting the mosquito’s delicate senses. It hit her right in the face, a pungent reminder of the strange world she found herself in. She couldn’t help but think of Ali as a lumbering, oblivious giant—an ogre in her fragile existence.

Her determination to survive grew stronger with every passing moment. If she managed to endure this trial, she vowed to share her tale with her fellow mosquitoes. She would create posters near the pit they called home, warning others about the perils of venturing into the Western Apartment’s furthest room—the lair of the fish-scented ogre. In bold, defiant red flower paint, she’d declare his pockets as the last place of choice for any mosquito who accidentally found themselves there.

The air in the room remained heavy with the satiety of Ali’s late fish supper, mingling with the foulness of his breath. The realization struck her – this was the source of the pervasive fishy smell. It emanated from the ogre’s mouth, a revelation that both repulsed and intrigued her.

She gazed longingly out of the window, her view a stark contrast to the murky, smoky atmosphere of Ali’s domain. Outside laid a free world, where the air was fresh and pure, untainted by the fishy gurgling of dirty, old, smoking, and drunken males. She yearned for the freedom to explore that world, to dance among the moonlit stars.

Her brother, the rogue mosquito, had disappeared from her view, likely having moved on to another dwelling. The other inhabitants of the room remained oblivious to her presence, their existence carrying on without acknowledging her own. Her brother might be deemed the real ogre, but now was not the time to dwell on such thoughts.

The mosquito couldn’t help but wish she could break free from her perpetual waiting for someone to save her. As Ali, frustrated by his fruitless search, dug deep into his pocket in search of an old receipt, the mosquito nibbled at the corner of the note, her determination resurging.

She wanted to fly, to seize this opportunity, but her wings remained stubbornly above her body, a reminder of her fragility. She couldn’t afford to let her desperation overtake her will to live. Flying now would only lead to disaster- her wings would fold, splitting from her body, an embarrassing and shameful fate.

Death loomed nearby, its cold embrace beckoning. She knew that one slim twist of her body would bring her at least a clean, peaceful end, but she clung to the fading hope that survival, against all odds, might still be possible.

The mosquito clung to her hope that, perhaps, after five more births in her clan, she would be granted a new life. But she harbored a deep desire not to be born to any other mother but her own. The connection to her family was precious, and she didn’t want her soul to be directed elsewhere after her passing. The weight of this decision hung heavily on her tiny shoulders as she faced the stark reality of her current predicament.

As Ali’s fingers snatched the paper he had been searching for, his relief was palpable. He stumbled and fell onto his bed, the worn mattress accepting his weary form. The mosquito clung tightly to the note, her world spinning as she clung to the fragile piece of paper.

Then, something changed. A rush of air, foreign and unfamiliar in the confined space of the pocket, swept over her. It carried her away from the suffocating smell but delivered her right into Ali’s palms. Panic surged within her. Fly. Now. Her alarm bells went off, her instincts screaming at her to escape.

At the same time, her hunger gnawed at her insides. The desperate need for nourishment warred with her instinct for self-preservation. She was caught in a cruel dilemma, realizing that she would either meet her end at Ali’s hands or succumb to the relentless pangs of hunger.

She cast a glance at the clock, her limited understanding of time telling her that the sun’s rays were about to break the horizon, possibly about thirty minutes away. The race against time intensified as she contemplated her next move.

Ali’s fingers, calloused from years of military service, seized a crumpled piece of paper, still oblivious to her presence, flipped the note, revealing hastily numbered points, scribbled in a rush to capture his thoughts before they faded. The cigarette dangled between his fingers, its ember casting a warm, orange glow in the dim room. He took a final, long drag before flicking the cigarette into the ashtray with practiced precision.

The mosquito, ever vigilant, spotted an opportunity when Ali reached for the ashtray. With a swift, almost imperceptible motion, she descended from the note and landed softly on Ali’s bare foot. Her needle-sharp proboscis pierced his skin and a rush of anticipation surged through her as she began to feed on his warm, inviting flesh. Remarkably, Ali didn’t flinch. His indifference to her feeding was a testament to the human behavior she had heard about in the earliest hours of her birth—the act of hunting without feeling, a concept she was beginning to understand all too well.

The mosquito fed without caution, her tiny body trembling with the intoxicating rush of Ali’s blood. She felt a strange satisfaction as she quenched her thirst, getting drunk on the warmth, thickness, salty and metallic tang of the life-giving fluid. It was an unexpected pleasure to find such richness in a person so smelly and unappealing.

The blood from Ali’s worn feet skin carried a scent reminiscent of the metal near the pit, her favorite place to sit and observe others. In her short life, she had developed a fondness for that spot. The idea of enjoying the real afternoon sunshine and reclining like her uncle, a five hour back memory she now cherished, filled her thoughts. She imagined herself rubbing her engorged stomach, watching passing ants and crawling maggots from the other side of the rotting pit. The thought of those maggots briefly crossed her mind; surely, humans must hate them too.

As she continued to feast, the mosquito found herself intoxicated by the warm and nourishing blood. It had only been a minute, and she was already inebriated with satisfaction. She closed her eyes and let out a tiny giggle, savoring the absurdity of her situation. Makes the two of us, she thought.

In this moment, two worlds collide in silent coexistence. Ali, the Captain, and the mosquito, a ten-hour-old wanderer, connected by the fragile thread of their shared space, yet worlds apart in their awareness and purpose.

Ali, on the other hand, turned over on his bed, retiring to sleep after his momentary frustration. Unbeknown to him, he had accidentally crushed the mosquito beneath his pinky toe in a split second. She hadn’t even had a chance for a last thought.

However, her brother, 19304221-45664333, had just returned to the scene. He was looking at her, having a good feed, and he was about to tell her that she had managed to spend two hours outside the pit—an impressive feat for a ten hour old mosquito of their clan. But as he approached, he witnessed her lifeless body fall from beneath Ali’s toe, the last drop of blood dripping from her proboscis.

He flew down and picked up her perished form, cradling her gently in his legs. The first light of the 5 am morning cast a soft glow around them as they drifted away from Ali’s bedside. Ali, unaware of what had unfolded, turned off the lamps, leaving the room in darkness once more.