The mother guides her son past the crowded street. The mosquito sits atop the chandelier. It tests its environment carefully, an alien in a new planet. The son wants to see everything, the sights of the fair, the smells of the fresh sweets, the taste of perspiration, the sound of fun, the warmth of life. Everything. The mother is afraid. The son winces as his little hand is squeezed hard by his fearful mother. The mosquito chafes at restrictions, at his education. He wants to be free. He does not want to walk, he wants to run. He does not want to trot, he wants to gallop. The son pulls his hand away. The mosquito takes a reckless step. The son is swept away into the crowd. The mosquito is suspended in a spider web. The son is lost. The mosquito is lost. The mosquito swears. The mother swears.
He is dressed up. She is dressed up. He paces nervously, and then with a deep breath, walks out. He strolls to the café, finds a nice seat. He is early. He sits down and sips his Coke, and waits. She runs down the stairs and rushes out to the street. She is late. She thinks wistfully of her last drink, and waits. She can see the cab, down the street. It comes too slowly. He can see her outside the window. She comes too slowly. He drums his fingers in impatience. Finally she comes close. He forces a smile on his face, and drags out a chair for her.
She stamps her feet in desperation. The whole world waits as the cab finally reaches her. She waves her hand and almost spurts out the words, ‘Airport, please?’ He is still trying to smile. After a few hours of sparse chit-chat, he splutters out the words, ‘Wanna… wanna go out with…. with me?’ She winces at him… He can see the word forming on her lips. The eternal note of destruction. ‘No’, she says. ‘There is someone else,’ she says, pointing at the yet unconcealed ring. ‘No’, he says, ‘There is someone else,’ he says, pointing at the yet unconcealed meter. Silence. It is over. He speeds away past the street. She walks out of the café. He swears. She swears.
You wait in the waiting room, sweat beads emerging from your forehead. I wait outside the ICU, my eyes red. The doctor comes out. The nurse comes out. The doctor pats your head tenderly, carefully. ‘I’m sorry, but…’ The nurse is more direct, more experienced. She touches my shoulder with sadness, professional sadness. ‘I’m sorry, but….’ You do not need the sentence to be completed. I do not need the sentence to be completed. I search for a place to recline… tears now crease my face. You search for appropriate words to say, appropriate thoughts to think. My father just died. You now know you are going to die. You swear. I swear.
Music is blaring through my ears. My hands fly over the keyboard. My eyes widen as the retinas confirm what I have just written. I am God. I am the creator. I am the destroyer. I made the mosquito. I made the mother. I made the spider. I made the kid. I made the guy in love. I made the girl he loved. I made the girl in search of the cabbie. I made the cabbie that refused her. I made you. I made me. I destroyed the mosquito. I destroyed the mother. I destroyed the guy. I destroyed the girl. I destroyed you. I destroyed me. You are the results of the chemical experiments in my brain. You are me. I am you. And as I play with your lives, I ask myself what the fuck I am supposed to do. I know the answer. I swear.