The Infestation (Published in Generic Magazine)

If I wasn’t so distracted, I’d have surely stopped them by now.

Indeed, it appears that this problem, which, at first, may have been manageable, has developed into something of a crisis. Despite crises, in their very nature, being rather pressing, I have still found no time to remedy the thing, as it appears that living with the issue has become a convenient and altogether more taxing method of management.

In speaking chronologically, I believe the problem has been ongoing ever since I bought the house. I should have known then that something was quite decidedly awry. At that very first instance, whereupon my concerns were peaked, I should have squashed the thing and moved on with my life. If I had only done so, then perhaps my life would not be in such a state of disorder as it is now.

In truth, it had seemed entirely trivial. The house, as it had been presented, was sprawling, luxurious, and not the least bit claustrophobic. It was an up-to-date work of modern architecture and sturdy in foundation as well, a factor I had been advised to account for in my purchase. I had been in a fine mood that morning, and the tour of my soon-to-be home had only further elevated my spirits. There were no discernible issues to find, and to speak more, I was even content with the price; a matter that had been affecting me with some agitation in the days prior. It should then be of no surprise that my former self, at the time quite smug and pleased, found no issue with the circumstances I had been afforded. Naturally, I then thanked the realtor, and perhaps, if my memory serves me, I may have delivered a gibe at the nature of how lucky I was to find such a lovely home. 

Only then, whereupon the day of my move arrived, was I presented with the dilemma. There in the foyer, insignificant and entirely without reason for concern, I had found an insect. It had been just that, merely a six-legged thing, scuttling along past the toe of my right boot. I had made note of the thing but found no further reason to follow its movements, assuming rightly that I had, perhaps, allowed the thing inside in opening the front door. Instead of dwelling on this, I had turned my attention towards my new home, and I must admit I thought no more on the matter. 

I only noted that curious creature again after I had well and truly moved in, whereupon I was in a far better position to note the particular nature of its presence. When the house had been dutifully furnished with good decoration and a meagre art which I had amassed over the years, only then did the little insect make himself known to me again.

I must admit, the creature did so in a more intrusive way than before, for if scuttling past my shoe had been the insect’s attempt at casual greeting, then certainly dropping from the ceiling onto my dinner plate was quite an abrupt and unusual advance. It fell with a startling pace and landed squarely in the middle of my meal, at which point my body was beset with a certain chill. Such is the effect of the unwarranted arrival of an insect. One finds themselves, no matter their actual fear of the thing itself, still put off and, without sufficient reason, disgusted. Startled and admittedly repulsed I had resigned not to eat that night, as the thing had nearly frightened the hunger from me.

Instead, I had gone to sleep and dreamt of inordinately little.
In damning hindsight, I should have relished that night’s sleep far more than I did then. 

Upon waking the next morning, I was not immediately suspicious. After all, one’s eyes are often hazy and fogged over in the early hours of morning, and so I thought nothing of the state of my room. I notably thought nothing of the motion that had occurred across from myself on the far wall. I thought shockingly little of the minuscule figures moving about across the picture frame.

Only after clearing my eyes quite completely did I begin to notice in full.

Scuttling with a bit more urgency than before was that same insect. The only difference between this instance and the last was it had seemingly brought with it a friend; a second wriggling accomplice that followed along quite dutifully at the tail end of the first. They were uniform in motion and came to move in decided patterns that made my skin itch.

Resigning myself to finish what should have been finished far sooner, I went then across the room to crush the creatures. No more would their presence interrupt my dinners or my mornings. After all, as I had seen it, the matter would be a fairly simple one. I was of the mind that the heel of my boot ought to sort out the matter quite quickly.

Here were the foolish thoughts I concocted. It was the case that such naivety would cease to persist for long.

The pests were quite conniving in that they managed to skillfully evade several swats from my ragged boot. They went, in frenetic motions, off into the crevices of the wall and though defeated momentarily, I happily resigned myself to a meal and some peace of mind. But this luxury, it seemed, was one I could not afford either.

With breakfast in hand, I found my kitchen table to be occupied. Not occupied by any sort of sensible guest or general acquaintance. Instead, seated at the head of the table were not one nor two, but in fact, three of the little insects. They sat atop the table in a neat row and were perfectly repulsive things to witness.

It was now, in the preterite stages of the issue, that I made a note to really look at the odd little things; to really get a certain sense of that which I was dealing with. Peering over my breakfast, I made note of their shining backs and curious hairy legs. They were grotesque little pests; too angular or perhaps too vile looking to elicit any amount of intrigue. With oddly segmented bodies that hunched well into themselves, they were not unlike terrible visions or, indeed, outlandish parodies of the sort of insects I had come to know. I could not even discern what they were exactly, as in their armoured backs and many eyes, I could make no comparison that would befit their strange appearance. It seemed, at their place atop my table, very much as though they were contemplating me back as a general might gauge an army on the near horizon. I swatted amply, and with due consideration, they scurried away and went from my vision. 

Having thoroughly and quite conclusively lost my appetite once more, I dressed myself for work and departed my new home, attempting to put the devilish creatures out of my mind for a few hours, at least. Though my day at work passed uneventfully and with some general success, I did manage to forget their presence and even felt quite pleased to see my house in returning to it at the end of the day. But upon returning to that pristine foyer, I found six insects, where three had been only hours prior.

They were nearly impossible to ignore now as they travelled in something akin to a pack or some foul troupe. In this way, there was an ever-present scuttling noise wherever they went; a vertiably nauseating sound delivered by several dozen legs inching forward at the very same time.

At this point, I was well and truly perplexed as to what to do. Six insects were by no means a horde. There was no need for true panic, and I reasoned with myself that I need only think smarter in order to outsmart their cleverly evasive movements. But, to speak of my true feelings, they were certainly beginning to get on my nerves, and more to the point, meals were impossible to enjoy now more than ever. However, with that distinct scuttling, an uneasiness had set about me, such that even reading the newspaper or brushing my teeth became an entirely unappealing process. I would find myself, even in the absence of the creatures, shivering at the very thought that one might be near me at any given time. On occasion, an effect of pinpricks would arise on my neck, and I’d be made to swat at it, finding nothing there at all. 

Several nights passed in a similar fashion: a hopeful wish that in the morning, the problem would be resolved, and upon morning’s arrival, a dejecting confirmation that the insect population had nearly doubled.

I dreaded that this would not end and that I really ought to have done something about it far sooner. Even in considering my present options, there were none that truly assuaged any of my most pressing concerns. I thought of calling an exterminator, some professional who might better handle the issue. But here I was aptly pressed with nerves that any good exterminator would see my situation as one beyond helping. Indeed, I fretted earnestly that in describing my situation, an exterminator might even laugh, finding that I was a properly piteous man who could not muster the thew to kill a few measly pests. With these anxieties lingering in my mind, I allowed, stupidly, for the dilemma to develop well beyond my wildest fears. 

At the present day, I admit that the population is well and truly worrisome. Most of the floor is now overrun with the things in a way that makes for a sickening illusion of ever-moving carpet. In despicable ways, the insects dart in perfect motion, creating avenues about the rugs; moving roadways of loathsome legs. Even in opening the cupboards, I often find myself forgoing food for fear of the things creeping up my arm. My eyes, weary from aggrieved sleep, now dart worriedly at all times. In every periphery, there is movement, sharply angular, such that attempting to distract one’s focus stands as quite impossible.

 In speaking more, there is sound present at all times and it is rather startling in volume. Those shining backs and haired legs have found their way into every nook and cranny of my home now, every corner and crevice now being occupied by some number of scurrying vermin.

Despite the newfound panic that this situation has instilled in me, it is notably quite odd that they have not yet touched me. In the nature of peculiar examples, when I go to sleep, I can rest knowing that I have yet to ever wake to an insect crawling up my leg or upon my chest. In similar fashion, when I walk through my home, the crawling things seem to strangely part ways for me, as though choreographed. Obediently, the insects seem to understand that there are limits to their steady and worrisome stream of encroachment. 

Of course, that alone does not stop me from fearing them.

The knowledge that the insects have not crawled on me as I sleep does very little to stop me from worrying incessantly about whether or not they will, at some unknown, indistinct time. Though I know the creatures will move for me as I step, I still find my head downturned as if only to make sure I am not treading upon the mass of shiny, wretched bodies.

It is with some shame that I concede that it has been a day or two since I last went to work. The horde of insects scale up my door most dutifully, and I, ever fearful, have not yet attempted to reach for the doorknob. Though I am almost certain the throng of bodies would move if I reached for it, I have not yet tried nor come close to doing so. Subsequently, my work post has gone unmanned, and I do wonder, briefly, if someone has noticed. It strikes me that I do not know what I would say if a manager were to call and angrily demand to know why I had left my station. In fact, I feel nearly as though I’d be properly embarrassed to admit how frightened I’ve been in recent days. And to put matters plainly, I am sure that any manager would not even believe my circumstances to be true. I am positive that such a fantastic would warrant a swift termination and perhaps even a consult by some psychiatrist.

Indeed, I have more pressing matters to deal with, and insofar as work is concerned, I will address that when all is not so grim.
The insects have managed to overrun most of my house at this point. Their territory has no boundaries, and they travel where they wish without care for my actions. Even if I should swipe out at the mass, they aptly move to parry me and return to scurrying. Their sounds are nearly deafening, too. That scuttling has transformed into something of an echoing scraping; a cacophonous rapture of living creatures filling the halls of my home.

My home.

That is, sickeningly, a laughable concept, as this is surely not my home anymore. If it ever was truly mine, no longer matters. If I ever really reigned over the house that now exists as a many-legged lair, is inconsequential. What matters is the creatures. The damned insects. The repulsive mass of grim, sickly bodies. 

Presently, I have retreated to my bedroom, whereupon I intend to make my last stand. Valiantly, I have taken up a position atop my bed, holding an umbrella at an arm's distance as though some miserable weapon might change my outlook. I attempt, rather pathetically, to steel myself in the face of the oncoming mass, although as I consider myself, my look of bravery must be without heart. For indeed, the walls are alive with those legs, as is the floor and the ceiling above me. I am surrounded on all sides by a nearly impenetrable concentration of monstrous things. So, too, is that sound still echoing, louder than cannon fire, or at least it seems as such. If not for my attempt to appear stoic, I would go to quickly cover my ears.

Though I attempt to appear far more collected, there is a particular disgust that takes me in, knowing that, in truth, I would much rather be curled and hiding away from the sight. I know well that if I were to drop all facades, I would most probably be weeping, and crying out final words, in the face of this growing mass. That living thing that so plagues me. That so consumes me, such that even breathing has now become a tortuous task.

It is now, that I wish those insects would simply cover me. Now, I wish they would do what they have not done all this time: touch me. I insist that they confirm my worst fears, that they end this miserable nervousness. If only by touching my skin, then perhaps they could become tangible and real to me. Too long have they lingered just out of reach, just out of sight, hovering in the folds of clothing, and in places unseen. Too long, have they haunted my nerves, and made me a wretch of a man. I have not worked in days for fear that they will swarm me entirely if I should so much as take my eye off of them. And so, I now wish terribly for them to touch me, to confirm what I have imagined: the sickly feeling of spindly legs, barbed and hairy, scaling my frame. How I wish to hear their clicking in my ear, as not in distant eruption, but a true splitting noise. I need now for them to swarm me so that I can know what I fear. This is my dilemma, as I can only imagine the horrors that their vile pincers might inflict on me, and as of yet, they still refuse to consume. I must have them cover me completely and totally. Surely then I would be repulsed and afflicted, but surely then I would be rid of the worry. Only then would they no longer exist as a source of faraway unease. Only then would I be free of the true and present terror. 

For that is truly the worst thing I can now imagine.
That constant and ever-present dread.