Musca domestica

House fly.

There is a dying fly in our room, and I desperately wish it would KEEL OVER, ALREADY. Flies are typically quick and buzzy as they leap from place to place. (Yes, they leap.) But not this one. This one is falling apart, so it hovers around at half-speed, like a failing car engine. When we swat and make contact with it, we can feel its nasty, fat little body as it escapes our murderous grip.

It cannot go on much longer.

This morning was particularly harrowing. I was in that lovely dream state, dozing between alarms, when I felt something tickle my hand. I woke up for long enough to swat the fly from my knuckle. I awoke thrice more to again brush the creature from my wrist. The bug must die: this declaration was confirmed by the next ten minutes, which the fly spent lazily drifting around my head. In bed. It landed on my nose. I wondered if it would make its way to Claire's face once I left for work, but apparently it did not. (Probably it couldn't find her face in there. She has a very thick blanket and sometimes talks in her sleep. It was probably too afraid to land on either of those characteristics.)

I am embarrassed to admit that my swear count has increased considerably since the fly has moved in. I hope it dies soon. Where is it right now? I'm really not sure, but I think it's rubbing its little feelers together, plotting against my poor knuckles. It never quite goes away...