Flies

A Chapter by tonymad11392

This is the beginning of our story, dealing with the escapades of a lonely woman

"[People] cannot endure [their] own littleness unless [they] can translate it into meaningfulness on the largest possible level."
~ Ernest Becker, 1973, The Denial of Death

"The truth is that everyone is bored, and devotes himself to cultivating habits."
~ Albert Camus, 1948, The Plague

"One must not let oneself be misled: they say 'Judge not!' but they send to Hell everything that stands in their way."
~ Friedrich Nietzsche, 1894/1990, The Anti-Christ

Parallels: Three Stories
By Anthony Madaleni

The bus was warm, the night was cool, and each star reflected her inner isolation. Life is so, pointless, she thought to herself. The seats are torn, cushioning pouring out like a disemboweled angel. The lights are cold, manufactured, casting a glow of monotonous warmth. They are located on the ceiling, flickering furiously, not comforting as one would expect, only personifying her many frailties. Stupid, stupid, stupid light, make me feel something, anything, even pain. The moon was full and clear, God's light bulb, he didn't want to keep us in the dark after all. Her eyelashes flickered; the mascara she wore covered the perimeter of her eyes, two delicate pools of blue liquid. She wore knee- high brown leather boots, high- heeled, and a black skirt. She had on a black coat, and a white button down shirt underneath, a pink scarf, her favorite, adorned her pale neck. The driver stopped, It was then she noticed an old woman, pale and full of affection sitting directly across from her. How had she not noticed her before? The woman was adorned in a checkered blouse, and she was knitting, knitting a bright blue sweater. The only other individual on the bus was sitting in the back, he wore black kaki pants a white shirt, black tie, and perfectly polished Armani business shoes. The bus came to a halt (creeeeak) and the front door swung open, it was her stop. No, that wasn't it, stopping implied that you had some sort of destination in mind, your life had a purpose, a goal to it, the universe and all of its intricate workings made perfect sense. She had no ultimate goal; her life had no meaning to it. The light from the bus cascaded onto the dark sidewalk, bending the confines of the darkness, twisting it into light, she wondered if some sort of struggle ensued, if the dark fought against the warm radiations, a battle of sorts, but she couldn't be sure, could she. One, two, three, four steps onto the sidewalk, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten steps toward brownstone house, and she was plunged into the fruitless escapade known as her life.

Flies: An ode to a depressed, middle- aged house wife

The door opened, he still hadn't fixed it, even though he promised to, on her birthday even, but that was six months ago. One, two her shoes and coat were off and she stepped into their small living room, seeing it once again affirmed her belief in the utter absurdity of the universe, children starved, men butchered one another, women died in child birth, and every single frailty the universe had to offer was reflected in her living room. Her loving (lie, he beat her frequently, teach you some respect, make me dinner on time, punctuality, a life lesson) was asleep on his favorite chair, the slippers she had so painstakingly knitted for him, adorned his feet, he looked remotely adorable, in his white undershirt, fat gut extending down to his crotch, and his feet peppered with the multitude of hearts that she had sewn (key word) onto his slippers. The couch located directly next to his chair was adorned with a quilt that said " We love our happy family!" Once again, she had knitted that herself and, once again, he had responded with a beating. The television casts a pale glow over the vicinity of the living room, it didn't so much as substitute darkness with light as replace the blackness of the room with a cold, mechanical fuzz. Pornography, his favooorite, graced the television screen. Big breasted, unbearably stupid women ferociously licked one another, forcing themselves to take pleasure in the depraved act, for the camera of course, always for the camera. Isn't that what its always about, smile, pose for the camera, seventeen, Cosmo (she hated Cosmo) get the paycheck and pay for the plastic! Forget personalities, star in some cheap porno and you'll provide easy company for some fat, disgusting men late at night. It was then her husband rolled his fleshy neck towards her and he smiled, he smiled! Pig, she thought to herself.

Come over here baby he said

Screw you, she shot back. She was not going to be dragged into one of his sick games tonight, she had had it with being beaten and abused by her lowlife husband.

Come on baby, it was then the billows of fat mass that made up his face parted, in the same way Moses split the Red Sea. He smiled again, and stood (somehow) he was gradually approaching her. She cringed and stepped back, he looked hungry, she ran.

Running through halls echoing nothingness, she ran, through a bedroom where the love was replaced with the passionless throngs of an unhappy marriage. Approaching the closet, she smiled, opening it and reaching for the rifle she smiled, and while loading it she was absolutely ecstatic.

She heard his voice, bellowing, carried by waves of useless desire, and a control that he could no longer exert over her. She went down the stairs (one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten) and approached him, rifle raised hesitantly.

What the hell, what you doing with that girl?

Shut up she said (so empowering)

It was then she noticed the flies, buzzing, lightly tapping against the lamp above their heads. Trapped much like she was, in a situation that demanded immediate escape.
She wondered, do they laugh, cry or love? Did they enter one another with more passion and mutual respect then in her situation?

She began to cry, small gleaming pearls traversing their way down her pale cheeks.

You've always been a cry baby he mocked

Don't you have anything to say for yourself, anything? Are you sorry, even a little bit?

Put the gun down, his manner suddenly stoic, he approached her, now stop all this talking, you need some discipline.

Get away! She shrieked, and fired

He opened up to her, finally (at least his face did.)

His being coated the walls in a thick, sticky paste, a shining scarlet, a sanguine lilac. He was magnificent, more beautiful than he had ever been in life.

She laughed a long heartfelt noise. The flies were still buzzing, trying desperately to find a way out, trapped, like she used to be.

She used the butt of the rifle to break open the overhanging light which had served as their confinement for so long. They hurriedly flew away, and she opened a window for them, they were free of their chains. She too, has to leave now, she packed her bags quickly and methodically and approached the front door.

She took one more glance at her now defunct husband, and the room covered in a macabre assortment of roses,

Thank you, she said, and stepped outside into the cold evening air.