The FlyMature

The evening was quite quickly being kicked off the pitch by the night at 11 pm on Wednesday the 27th of May. School tomorrow, and I really didn't feel like it. I hadn't done my homework either, but let's face it, I never, ever did my homework. Maybe I should have, as a 9th grader, but I didn't really care at the time. So I was pacing my room, every now and then removing an item of clothing and replacing it with my dream gear, or as the plebs calls it, pyjamas. And as I did so a fly flew through my window, which was wide open.

Now I don't normally mind flies that much, but when they start to buzz around me and don't let me sleep (as in, pace my room and hang around my bed, taking care not to get in) I can get a little annoyed. So I took the little box that I usually used to catch and rescue spiders, mosquitoes, centipedes and other creepy-crawlies that would die within a couple of hours in my room with its poisonous perfume and deodorant fumes. With the open box, I raced around my room, following the little fly. Of course, it was too stupid to fly out the window, but not too stupid to fly away from me and my little box. Finally I was exhausted, so I put away the box, sat on my bed and looked at the fly.

'So what, little fucker, you want to stay the night here?'

No answer.

'That's fine with me, but don't go buzzing around my ears during the night, okay?'

Still no answer. Ah well, Fucker probably understands.

I got up, walked out of my room and closed the door. I walked to the bathroom, flicked on the light and took my toothbrush. The colourful toothpaste that came out of the tube reminded me of slugs. I hate slugs.

As I stuck my toothbrush in my mouth and started to brush, I stared at myself in the mirror and looked around the bathroom at what was happening behind my back. All of a sudden, on the surface of the mirror, a fly landed. Even though there was no way to know for sure, I had this strange feeling that it was Fucker.

'Well, rug,' said the toothpaste in my mouth, distorting the 'Well, fuck' on my lips.

I spit out the whitish foaminess of the toothpaste and rinsed my mouth. I always heard people complaining about how unrealistic films are where the actors never have any toothpaste on their lips, well, I never had toothpaste on my lips either, go call me fucking unreal, then. I straightened my back and looked at Fucker.

'Fine, stay here, then,' I said, pointing at him.

Though maybe it was a 'her'? Ah well, I didn't really care. I went back to my room and just before I closed the door, Fucker flew back in. At which I just laughed and went to bed, because everything was clear to me: when you start to speak to flies, you really need some sleep.

The End

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