Whirring

The whirring has stopped. Now all that was left is the underlying buzz, almost like a sizzle at times.  He knows it is insects making their way through the space between, but to him, it sounds like bacon cooking on a grill.  Perhaps that is because this is exactly how he felt.  Lying on his bed, window open, and the door, and the window in the other room as well, hoping for a whisper of a breeze that would not come.  He can shut them, close the curtains and hope that it may cool down, however, logic runs the other way as well.  Perhaps it will be like closing an oven door, abandoning all inside to a blistering fate. Truth be told, it didn't really matter what side won the argument, he will not be moving from this spot to make any modifications to his surroundings.  If he moves, it would require energy, energy exerted will only make him hotter.  No, he will remain here, lying, waiting for that breeze that surely has to come, sometime.

The whirring has stopped.  He can feel the beads of sweat gathering upon his upper lip now. Even his breathing seems to be too much exercise, causing his body to sweat in protest of it.  It seems only right though, his lip, the rest of him has been covered in the sheen of sweat all day, only his face and shoulders in a protected bubble. Now though, that bubble had popped and nothing was safe, nothing was granted even the smallest release from the sweltering temperatures. Will I ever be cool again, It feels like my whole life has been overheated, sweating, praying for some sort of mythical breeze to sweep in and clear out the stale heat.  Hope, the hope that someday it would come, that someday he could take a proper breath in and not scorch his throat and lungs. For now though, shallow, limp breaths, one after the other, hoping for the unimaginable.

The whirring has stopped. He can hear buzzing, a more isolated tone to it now.  A fly, the bane of all existence in this heat.  A fly someone could hear, sometimes see, but somehow never stop.  Eyes closed he tries to pinpoint it.  Will it leave back out the window, from where it came.  Will it land, remain still, like me, to conserve the sacred energy.  Or was it sent here for a darker purpose.  A trickster, a bored god with all the time in the world to play with petty mortals.  Not a fly at all then, a peace assassin intent on a horrific task.  It buzzes about the room, he can see it through his mind's eye.  Over by the open door, then to the chair near the dresser.  It stops, perhaps on the chair back, walking, tasting, exploring.  Then again, watching, planning, waiting.  Its many eyes focused on the prone body on the bed, sheets off, long abandoned on the floor.  Studying the best way to attack, annoy, and disturb the figure.  All those prying eyes.  It is off again, the low buzz moving hovering to the opposite wall now, keeping its distance though.  Surely it must be a denizen of the dark, all know that a fly will immediately go to any being in close proximity. No, this one is clever, far too clever to be normal.  It bounces along the far wall, looking for a way out, or seeming to.  Closer, parallel to the end of the bed.  Closer, alongside to where his hand lay, perhaps a metre away. If I move, it will easily escape me.  No, I must wait if I am to end this torment. Closer, now across from where his head lay, bouncing, now the wall by his head.  He is surprised when the drop touches his lips, sweat, he has almost forgotten the heat, almost.  The salty taste as he licks the sweat away, far too much energy to waste with a hand. Wait, the bouncing has stopped.  When?  Where?  Damn the denizen, far too clever to be a regular fly.  It could be close, it could be right above his head.  It could be about to jump on his face, on his ear, on the sweat ladened lip. Where was it. The temptation to move, to look around and find the small demon was so strong, it almost overpowered him.  No, that is exactly what it wants me to do.  I will wait, let it make the first move, and make sure it was it’s last.

The whirring has stopped.  How long has the sun been out. The day seemed to feel like it was never going to end.  Outside must be nothing but a scarred shell of a planet.  Nothing can survive in this heat.  *where was it*  Nothing but the constant buzzing, the taunting of those things that will most likely outlive him, outlive all.  Those whose exoskeletons were made up of far stronger stuff than humans.  *it has to move soon*  He had read an article once about small animals that were indestructible.  Moss pigs or cute bears, fat and adorable.  Those things would probably love this heat, thrive in it.  Why couldn’t he be more like them, the cute microscopic bears.  *it has to be near his head*  Silly humans were too frail.  Perhaps there is a way to change our bodies to be more like the tiny bears, only bigger.  Then heat like this, the kind that feels like it is melting you through your bed to the floor below, will be nothing more than a happy sunny day.  Maybe someone has thought of it. *come on, do something* Perhaps right now, in a lab far from here, someone is coming up with a way for humans to handle the sun, handle this increasing heat.  Probably.  No doubt there is一 got you! Hand quickly lifts and hits the wall above his head where he hears the buzz.  He feels nothing but pain in his knuckles.  The buzzing moves away, lazy, as if laughing and fearless. His knuckles hurt, so does his pride.  He lets his arm drop above his head having no energy to return it back to his side.  Assassin fly wins this bout. The day is not over though, far from it, so very far.

The whirring has stopped.  The knuckles still hurt, at least he has something to focus on again, rather than the heat that was now diving deep into the pores of his face.  It is like he is being baked, absolutely and completely, from the outside in.  Thinking about it though, his insides were normally a lot hotter than the outside weather weren't they.  So why does heat bother us so much.  Why does the thin layer between our inside and our outside need to be kept so moderate with regards to temperature.  Without thinking his hand moves up and wipes another bead of sweat from his lip.  Dropping it to the bed again he wonders if he can handle this for much longer.  Even that small amount of movement, though unintentional, is a cost to his body.  Would it be worth it to move, to get a drink.  He has a glass of water beside the bed, by now it would be lukewarm, hardly worth the effort.  He needs cold, ice, snow, frost, anything that will drum up the thought of winter.  There is nothing like that here, the distance he would have to travel would be too far, no, he will need to suffer, need to一oh, so you have come back.  Arrogance will be your downfall.

The whirring has stopped.  It has been long forgotten now. The focus was entirely on the buzzing that was again drawing closer.  No playing coy this time, straight to the bed, straight to the exposed leg that is resting peacefully no more.  I will not move, I will not give in to your games.  I can handle this. The crawling legs moving down to the foot, the toes.  Why the toes, like it knew the weakest point, of course it did.  Bored gods.  A small twitch, not too much energy wasted, but just enough to dislodge the unwanted parasite.  Buzzing again, only to land on the stomach.  Another twitch, small but effective. When should I strike, where is it most advantageous to me.  The hand, the face, the chest.  Landed now on the shoulder. Oh, you are reading my thoughts, avoiding key areas.  Fine, we will do this your way.  Slap. Miss. Damn. Chest, slap, miss.  Shit.  Eyes are wide open now.  Waiting, wall,slap, miss.  Up on the knees. To hell with heat, this is revenge.  Flying high, up near the ceiling.  It knows this is no longer a game.  Waiting, watching. Now who is the predator.  Light fixture, lunge, miss. God damn it.  Back to the wall at the head of the bed. Guttural cry as another lunge occurs.  SHIT.  How are they so fast.  The deceased fan on the bedside table. Turn and try to backhand, knocking the traitorous object to the floor.  Wait.  I hit it.  I think i got it.  Sweat runs down his face as the small black victim is seen on the floor unmoving.  A hard fought battle, a win, but at what cost. Sweat is now pouring from him.  Hold up, no salt this time.  It is not sweat.  A turn to the window, a rumble of acknowledgement and a small burst of moist air carries through across bare skin.  Rain.  Oh the bounty, the dream one feared to dream.  A flash and more spray of coolness.  A prize, the conceed of a god, a reward bestowed.  The rare win of a mortal. Slumping back on the bed letting the droplets spill like kisses, a smile upon the face. Peace

Slowly, painfully, the whirring starts.