Death Spiral

There are ants circling on my kitchen counter.

A death spiral, I think it's called. They go around and around, in hurried little circles. Rushing to nowhere. I stand and watch them, motionless, as they scurry around on the filthy granite. Thick rings of coffee stain their surroundings, like drops rippling in water.

My arms reach out to pour a coffee. The mug, with it's "World’s Best Mum" design gradually chipping away, is brought to my lips. I burn my mouth again. It only just healed.

I should kill these ants. Get the spray and exterminate them. That's what a good housekeeper does, albeit a good housekeeper doesn’t keep a house that attracts merry-go-rounds of insects. For reasons unknown to me my legs do not move towards the bug spray kept on the top shelf. Instead, I take a pinch of sugar, that I no longer bother to put in my coffee, and sprinkle it to the left of the spiral.

The ants continue in their cycle, unaware of this feast offered by the Gods. I wonder if this is how it feels to be a God. Tiny lives in your hands, allowed to live out of pity. Offering gifts that go unnoticed.

My son's macaroni art begins to peel off the fridge. I stare at it for a moment before my attention is redirected to the ants.

I slide my index finger into the spiral, careful not to crush anyone. I hope this will make them realise there is more to their world than the ant in front of them. To my disappointment, they simply move around me, continuing their doomed journey.

I drop some fruit juice to the right. Nothing. Some honey, some wine. Nothing, nothing. These ants are soldiers, marching relentlessly onwards with their suicide mission. I almost envy their resolve.

There seems to be one ant outside of the spiral, unaffected by the disease. It runs around the circle, approaching and backing away and approaching again, all with an eerie sense of desperation. There’s a cosmic horror to it all- this lone creature being the only one with it’s autonomy intact, watching all of its friends resigned to their fate, spiralling and spiralling until they no longer can.

I inhale sharply and my hands move to the cupboard. Before I’m aware of my own actions, I’m holding a cutting board.

I raise it above my head.

One swift motion.

I slam it down on the ants.

I’m left wide-eyed, lightheaded. Staring statically at their splattered remains, decorating the red plastic like a galaxy.

I take a cloth and wipe them away.

I drink my cold coffee.

This was mercy.

***

I head to work, like I’m supposed to.

A year ago my husband’s nine-to-five was enough to get us by, but with everything getting more expensive, rent increasing, my Lexapro prescription not being covered by our insurance- I had to get a job to make ends meet.

As a child I dreamed in crayon scribbles about lab coats and court rooms. I silently apologise to her as I bag groceries, surrounded by kids half my age saving for their first cars.

My arms move on their own, scanning each product one by one as time melts away. A sanitised pop song crackles over tinny speakers. I hear it about four times per shift, and yet I couldn’t tell you any of the lyrics.

I feel something crawling along my wrist and impulsively slap it.

“You alright love?”

A wrinkled woman with bright eyes is looking at me with a concerned smile.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry. Just an ant.”

I peel my hand away to reveal nothing but a freckle. I keep moving my arms so she doesn’t think I’m crazy.

Only as I process the woman’s cash do I take notice of the brightly coloured bouquet I’ve bagged for her. I think it’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. The woman notices me looking and grins.

“Just a little surprise for my wife.”

I stifle my mild shock. “What’s the occasion?”

‘No occasion love, it’s just something we do. Gives you a little something to smile about.”

***

It’s rush hour as I drive home, so traffic is painfully stagnant. Seeing cars clustered around the round-about, inching forwards bit by bit, I can’t help but think of the ants. I check the roses buckled into the seat next to me for insects.

My husband’s already home by the time I pull into the driveway. He’s holding our son who waves enthusiastically.

“What’s this?” he asks, gesturing to the flowers, “I didn’t miss our anniversary, did I?”

“No, no,” I say, strangely nervous. “I just thought it’d be nice. Bring a bit of colour to the house.”

His suspicion only grows as we head inside. Our son runs back to YouTube Shorts and puts his clunky headphones on.

“Is this meant to be an apology? Did you scratch the car again or something?”

I quickly regret this impulsive display of affection as I repeatedly defend it. I go about arranging the bouquet in a dusty vase. I prick my finger on one of the thorns. Blood forms a uniform orb on my skin. It’s weirdly pretty. It matches the roses.

My husband is examining the plastic. He shoves the price tag in my face.

“$28.99 for unnecessary flowers? Seriously?”

He’s starting to yell now. I feel myself shrinking down.

“Did you even get something for dinner?”

F*ck. I forgot we needed to eat. I throw myself back into the car and head towards McDonalds.

***

I try to avoid falling asleep at the wheel as I travel down street-lamp lit streets without a conscious thought. I feel an itching along my arm. Another ant. I try to keep my hands on the wheel.

A tickle across my leg. My chest. My neck. I’m focused on the road now, forcing my attention.

I feel something crawl across my face, heading towards my eye-

My car swerves. An awful scream. Scraped against a pole.

I’m left shaking and clawing at my face.

Nothing. There was nothing.

With trembling hands I go through the Drive-Thru. I order meals for my husband and son. I’m not sure I feel well enough to eat, and we can’t afford food that will end up in the trash.

I pray I’m not actually going crazy. There’s no way I could afford more appointments, more screenings, a cycle of more medications that don’t work. I don’t have the money to be sick.

By some miracle, I make it home. I feed my family and I don’t tell my husband about the car or the pole or the ants. He goes to bed. I sprawl myself on the couch and start watching some trashy reality show. I don’t know which one. They’re all the same.

My throat begins to feel scratchy, and I wonder if I’m starting to get sick. My immune system is pretty terrible so it’s not unlikely. I have work tomorrow so I’ll have to tough it out.

The scratching persists, painfully. I peel myself off the couch to get some ibuprofen, and suddenly become aware of a thick congestion in my chest. My throat starts to tighten, and I find myself gasping for breath. My head feels heavy, so heavy I feel like I could collapse. I almost do. I catch myself on the kitchen counter, wheezing. I start coughing, a thick, guttural hacking, into my elbow. I feel a cold splat dislodged from my lungs and a sour taste in my mouth. Smeared on my hoodie is a thick black paste. Clumps of tiny beads.

Ants.

I almost scream but I disrupt myself by coughing again, and again. I cannot breathe. Ants in my lungs and my throat are crawling, swarming, and coming up in thick gooey chunks.

My head bursts with pressure behind my eyes. I feel an itching, then a crawling. My vision blurs with hot tears as ants crawl out of my eye sockets. I try to blink them away but it’s no use. Pain shoots through my skull. My peripheral vision begins to go dark. Not fading, swarming. Covered. Closing in. I cannot see in front of me. I step on something with a sharp crack. My son’s macaroni art. The paper slides forward beneath my foot and I’m falling, falling. Not a person anymore. A vessel. A colony.

I hit the ground and the world goes dark.

***

I sit up in a cold sweat, blinking as I take in my surroundings. I’m on my couch, antless. Uninvaded. Free.

It was just a dream, of course. A terrible, awful dream. I breathe a sigh of relief, almost laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

Upon grabbing my near-dead phone, I realise it’s 8am already. I need to get ready for work.

My limbs are heavy with exhaustion, despite sleeping for nearly twelve hours. I make my way to the kitchen to make myself a coffee. I start the kettle, take a mug, and dump three teaspoons of instant coffee powder into it. I stare blankly into space as I wait for the water to boil, still half asleep. That’s when out of the corner of my eye, I see them.

The ants are back, spiralling again.