Empty Box

I’m gonna have to kill the fly. It’s been flying around my bedroom for a few days now. I keep my door closed, so the poor thing has no chance of escaping. It’s my third day of wallowing. I chose today to lie fetal in my bed; there isn’t enough space for two living things to share this tiny room. My depression has grown, engulfing the darkest corners of my little sunlit box, and exhaustion threatens to overtake me on my last day of theoretical health. I’m gonna have to kill the fly. Each time it enters my periphery my irritation grows, pushing my comfortable inertia to the sides of my consciousness. I sink deeper into my too-soft mattress. I wish I had a fly swatter. Not one of those plastic tennis rackets but a person to swat the fly for me. I guess the room is big enough for two people but not for one depressed person and a fly. I’m gonna have to kill this damn fly. My bed is having trouble swallowing me. I am too large a mouthful. I pull the covers up, forcing myself down its throat. The fly has become obsessed with the duvet around my head. I can’t seem to drown out its awful buzzing. How can a fruit fly make such a cacophony? It forces itself into my queen-sized bed. Fine. I emerge to reach for a tissue from the box on my bedside table. It’s empty. How annoying. I get up, go to the bathroom for a few sheets of toilet paper. When I return to make contact, the fly is nowhere to be found.