It began with the fruit flies. Wielding the electric flyswatter, my eyes honed in on fly after fly, and — the tantalizing shock of death! Accompanied by heavy salivation. I developed strategies: after the initial onslaught and frenzied dispersal of wings, I’d pinpoint flies at rest upon the countertops and cabinets, then goad them into flight and certain death. Soon I found any possible excuse to wander into the kitchen. I began consuming monstrous amounts of tea and zap flies as my oolong steeped. I’d enter the pantry under pretense of looking for a snack, and kill any critters within reach of my flyswatter-extended-wingspan.
Our house’s seemingly incorrigible fruit fly population disappeared within two weeks. My housemates applauded the extermination of the scourge, unknowingly attributing my dedication to selflessness rather than thirst.
Earlier in the summer, I pursued a lanky-limbed boy. He danced and cooked and made mistakes like other humans. I was understanding. I was earnest, I played no games. I flexed newly learned skills of emotional maturity and gave him benefit of the doubt time after time, wanting to believe in good intentions rather than the obvious truth. It served neither of us well; I wear kindness like a decomposing fur, cloying and lifeless, and he fell in bed with another.
It saddens me that under the judging light of day, my only acceptable victims are fruit flies. A fly is a weak prize. All things considered, it does not suffer very much against my efficiently-designed weapon (“And that,” I think smugly to myself, “is why I am not a monster”). I wish I had had my way with the boy. He would have left regardless but I at least could’ve had my fun; I saw a truer version of myself that first morning I stood barefoot in the kitchen, chasing pain. After all, the best highs aren’t reached through the physical misery of mindless creatures. I find deeper fulfillment through the psychological torment of someone who can learn to hate themself. I needle. I stab. I will meet a lover in their despair and stroke their hair, cooing that they can trust me, and store away their confessed vulnerabilities to whip out on a sunnier day. Drawn out, malicious, and inescapable, my words will overwhelm someone’s sense of self and convince them that they are loathsome. This is when I feel the most safe.
I always thought of kindness as the final destination, like a homely wife you marry after a playboy adolescence flirting with jealousy, possessiveness, and anger. I’m starting to think otherwise. Kindness does not suit me; I am kind like Stevia is sweet. I can only wear this false skin for so long before my hunger rises in my throat, choking out everything else in its need to be satisfied. With no outlets to cut my cruelty, I wonder for those around me, for what will happen when I can’t hold down the tide of malice any longer. But I have no one to blame but myself. Next time, I’ll spare a few fruit flies.
