"Flies"

      “Flies”.

      A gruff voice cuts the single word into the air, breaking the silence that had been slowly suffocating the two men seated across from one another at opposite ends of a finely carved wooden table. The word floated through the speechless void, lazily drifting from one occupants lips to the other occupants ears.

      “I'm sorry?”, said a small voice from across the sea of oaken tabletop. The inflection in his voice was punctuated by a sharp rap on the polished surface, as one hand belonging to the man at the near side of the table came down to end the life of the flying pest that had made the poor decision to infringe upon this conversation. Outside, the dark evening shadows slowly overtook the receding daylight, as if the sun itself did not want to bear witness to the events unfolding within the walls of this leviathan house.

        “That's the ninth fly I've killed today. I hate flies”.

          “May I ask why?” the less -gruff voice asked rather shyly, almost afraid to learn the truth of the answer.

           “Well, they're not exactly the company I would like to keep. I'd prefer less intrusive house guests. Any other small animal would enter seeking food, only looking to satisfy a base urge to survive and then return to the wilderness. Any other winged creature would swoop in and quickly see that these dark corridors do not offer a glimpse of the freedom the open sky offers. Any other man or woman would quickly realize the cold environment this place fosters, and hastily make their way to the door and the warmth of anothers embrace“

               “But a fly? - and here the gruff-voiced man allowed a sneer to creep onto the features of his face, a sneer the stranger could clearly see from the distance that separated them, for a dim fire burned in an ornate fireplace halfway along the southern wall, it’s low embers slowly dying but still casting enough light and shadow to illuminate his hosts face- “a fly lingers. A fly persists. A fly makes sure he is noticed above all else.”

             “But at least an exterminator can get rid of a fly problem, if need be. Not always the case when a woman takes up residence.” A gruffly-tinged laugh echoed around the cavernous room in which the two sat, a room lined with bookcases recessed into the dark walls. Upon these dusty shelves stood all kinds of brick-a-brack that hadn’t seen the light of day, nor the touch of a custodial hand, in quite some time.

            “Should I call one for you?”, said the timid voice perched in the chair across from the hulking frame of the gruff-voiced man. He did not expect an answer to this question, nor did he receive one. He also did not receive any trace of a smile or smirk from his counterparts features, as was his intent. The minuscule crack of a smile on his own face faded quickly, having noticed the features of his companion unchanged.

             “Now, you see, here's the thing about flies”, the gruff-voiced man lamented, “There is only one window in this whole god forsaken house I open. And I've had that window closed all day. And the frame sealed up tight. But all day, one fly after another. Again and again and again they appear”.

               “I’ll be sitting there reading, minding my own and suddenly- Fly. Buzzing and humming. Humming like an idling turbine. An idling turbine in the back of my mind, incessantly churning . Humming like a bad penny spun on the sidewalk in a hurry to see who Lady Luck will lend her fortune to. Humming like the melody-obsessed man who can’t seem to get that tune out of his head.

              “Sure, I swat one or two away, able to silence their buzzing. But then it just seems two more pop up to take its place, dunnit? All day I've hunted these flies. All day I’ve wandered from room to room, standing perfectly still, like a prowler in the night tensing up at any little sound that might alert someone to his presence. It’s like I'm in the jungle, the jungle of my own home, tracking ‘em. I hear ‘em at the window, hear them zip past my ears. They’re always watching, these flies. Always trying to find the hidden nooks and crannies of this place.

              “Torment me, they do. All day. My searching does not stop, to find the spring they’re birthed forth from, burped out into the world by some yawning chasm beneath, as if chased out by Lucifer himself”.

              “And if I look close enough I can see a tiny little crack in the frame of that solitary window. Not big enough for any other type of vermin or varmint to slip into. But a housefly? Well, it’s its lucky day. That's where they’re coming from. Squirming through that hole, coming in to explore, to nose around, seeking sustenance for their short lives. Rooting around, hoping to find some morsel to feed off of, some semblance of secrecy to steal and beckon back to the outside world.

               “And all it takes is one. One little fly, one little crack in the foundation and suddenly it’s all over. Suddenly they're all over, blanketing the surfaces in bubbling, undulating waves. Crawling upon the sconces, sliding between the cracks, lining the fixtures and blotting out the light. And before I have a single chance to defend myself, I've lost control of the house. For any peace I am able to obtain in the pursuit of these intruders is so fleeting that I question the sheer repetition of my actions. Not a day goes by where I do not hear the droning of their microscopic wings shattering the mausoleum-like stillness I have cultivated here. “

              The man with a voice like gravel paused here to lift his hand from the table and deftly brush away the remains of the creature he had been so thoughtfully sermonizing these last few moments, yet killed without an ounce of hesitation.

              “I hate flies”.

               The man with the gruff voice stared calmly across the table, as his companion nervously swallowed and tried to hold his gaze.

               “And it is this hatred of flies”, said the gruff -voiced man, “that leads me to ponder this particular question“. Having let his gaze wander around the library room in which the table was placed, the gruff-voiced man allowed his inquisitive eyes to settle once more upon the body occupying the chair at the far end.

              “If I so greatly hate the presence of one insect in my home; the insurgence of a tiny, pitiful, disgusting enemy into this Eden of my own making, then please, tell me - why do I allow you to take that seat across the table from me?”

             The timid man seemed to shrink into the chair which bore his lanky frame, as if the chair was attempting to fold in on itself like a ravenous mouth and swallow him whole. He opened his thin-lipped mouth to reply but the gruff-voiced man cut him off with a raised hand. A hand that was heavily tattooed.

            Tattooed not just by ink saturated under the skin, but by scars from a different artist, the artist everyone knew as Life, leaving one to wonder how they came to be.

            “For are you not an insect? Seeking shelter within the confines of my home? Hoping to extend your ever-shortening life span by a few milliseconds, hoping to try and extract what the hundreds that have come before you have failed to extract themselves?”

            The lanky man swallowed nervously again, adjusting the lapel of his shirt in an attempt to regain some composure after the blistering denouncement of his character. Meekly, he croaked “Careful now, what would your brother think? For isn’t he the real reason I’m here”? And with that word, brother, all traces of the feeble persona he entered the conversation with vanished, leaving in its place an entirely new man, like a snake shedding its skin, or a possum playing dead until smaller prey dares come closer.

Having noticed this transformation, the gruff-voiced man slowly began inching his hand from the table, the handle of the pistol strapped to his thigh its new destination. “I will tell you what I have told the scores of men that have come before you, and what I will tell the scores of men that will come after you, including my backstabbing brother” said the gruff -voiced man, as he reverently laid his tattooed hand back across the mahogany table, a table surprisingly polished, considering its other surroundings.

              The Host leaned across the glistening surface, as flames from the fading fire reflected in his gaze and fought against the glint of malice in his eyes, to speak the words he had spoken countless times before -and would continue to speak countless times after- for there were surely more destined to fill that very spot at the table currently occupied by this trembling, lanky man. “The only way It leaves my side is if I’m buried in the dirt, cold and dead. And best make sure I’m snug nice and deep, for if I’m not down there for good, I’ll claw my way back to reclaim what’s mine”.

             In this moment, same as all the other moments he’d lived on this Earth, the gruff-voiced man knew two things were certain.

              His brother would pay. And he hated flies.