It was true, there were flies on my wall. They’d been arriving one by one, day by day. It had been going on for months now, possibly years. I’d even started to name them. The first fly to arrive I had christened Salamander, and I was starting to become attached. He’d observed so much of my life in this little room and, oftentimes, he would perch on my shoulder as I stared into the computer screen.
Then his friends started to join him. Now it was becoming a veritable pain. Too many flies on your wall. It’s not an uncommon problem, but it is a problem.
You came clambering in through the window, which was strange seeing as I was situated on the fourth floor.
“There are flies on your wall,” you said. I nodded in agreement. “How’s the career coming along?” You asked, as you were taking off your trousers.
“What are you taking off your trousers for?”
“I find things more agreeable without them.”
You tossed your trousers over a chair and took a seat on my desk. I found this rather presumptuous. You looked at the wall. It was covered in idle flies.
“Look at all those flies,” you said.
“I know.”
You scratched your backside.
“So, how’s the career coming along?”
“What career?”
You scoffed.
“Don’t be so downbeat,” you said. “It’s depressing.”
“Put your trousers back on,” I retorted. You were always annoying me. Why did I allow you to annoy me? I couldn’t even remember how we’d met.
“Look at all those flies,” you said, staring at the wall.
“I can’t get rid of them.”
“Sure you can.”
“Don’t be absurd.” The frustration was hurting my heart.
You stood up and waddled to the cupboard under a sink. You opened it and pulled out a can. You held it aloft like the World Cup.
“Fly killer spray,” you announced, before turning to the wall of flies.
“What are you doing?” I said, concerned.
“Fixing your problem,” you said.
“Don’t you dare,” I said.
“Enough, Piglet,” you said.
“Don’t do it. Salamander is up there.”
But you didn’t listen. You strode to the wall and let loose with the can of poison, whipping it around like a mad man. Like Jackson Pollock. The flies went crazy. They dispersed from the wall, revealing a poster of Bono that I had forgotten had ever been placed there.
The flies dropped like flies. It was ironic. They laid strewn across the floor. Dead.
I hunched over Salamander.
“What have you done?” I said, looking up at you. “What have you done!”
“You are starting to embarrass the family.”
“But I have dreams. These things take time.”
You looked down at me with pity, just as all those flies had been doing. Yes, just like the flies.