We rustle down the carpet, he in his red flannels and I in my favorite jeans as we make our way solemnly to my bedroom, trying with all of our power not to disturb in any way the long, sought for slumber of my exhausted mother. He pauses at the door, letting his hand push it slowly forward before shutting it behind us in almost total darkness.
“So,” he lets out quietly while falling on top of the bed, “how was your day?” The room is cozy, surprisingly clean, with the lamp from the edge of my desk casting a golden glow on the fatigued lines of his face as he stretches out his legs. With him waking up at least seven o’clock to go to work, and I popping happily out of my own cocoon at twelve before engaging in intense summer socializing, we don’t seem to have much time to spend together anymore. So seated on my own chair I begin to discuss the general events of the day, and even though I can tell that the only place he wants to be right now is in the folds of his commodious sheets, he listens intently to every detail.
Then, we hear it. We perk our ears towards its direction. There is an unmistakable buzzing sound, not the angry, hurtling tone of a bee but the quiet droning of a wanderer, a creature aimlessly flitting from wall to wall zipping around corners, a fly.
All at once my dad has awoken, his eyes raving wildly about the ceiling like a madman, his pulse quickening, beads of sweat forming at his brow. “Where is he?” He snarls, darkness encompassing the shadows of his countenance.
A little startled at such a transformation, I search the circumference of the room wearily from where I am sitting. At last the tiny, black rocket comes into view, and as my father reaches for the towel still slightly damp from this morning’s shower, I can’t help but feel sisterly compassion for the poor thing. I stand up and cry with conviction, “Dad, you can’t kill him!” I am just as surprised as he is at such an outcry, why is this particular fly different from all of the rest?
“And why not?” He retorts, winding the blue, striped cloth into a tight binding of fabric. His eyes still rest on the small, ebony dot shooting past my bookshelf.
“Because,” I try, “it isn’t right. This fly is one of God’s creations, who are we to say when its life is finished? We can’t just kill it because it bothers us, how would you like it if someone just smashed you to pieces simply because you are annoying? His blood will be upon your shoulders, you will not be able to sleep tonight because of the guilt! He has a family, children, a wife!”
He looks at me evilly. “What, are you going to join some fly-awareness organization? This fly is a dead-man, and after he is done with, I will sleep like a baby tonight.” The towel is released from the spring of his arm, thudding ominously on the bare, white wall beside him. I shudder at his cruelty, his blackened, impenetrable heart.
I can’t give up though. “We can save him, Dad! We can just bring him outside where he belongs.” I search his eyes pleadingly, begging for some small part of my beloved father to shine through the obscurity of this merciless monster.
“And how do you propose we do that?” He demands, winding up the towel for another blow.
“I’ll get him in a cup.” I reply with determination.
Somehow I leave him there as he laughs at me, dashing to the bathroom to earnestly glean two glasses from a counter that I pray will win me victory. Returning to the trauma, I prepare myself for the final emancipation, but then the problem arises. Every time I get close enough to clasp the containers around it, I lose my courage from its presence, in fear of that incessant whirring. It doesn’t help of course that my own father is sitting behind me nonchalantly, cackling hideously at each near miss.
I continue with great tenacity, the minutes flying by, convinced that with each new attempt, success will come forth. It seems like hours advance and I still cannot grab hold of my apprehension. Undoubtedly agitated with my unshakable resolve I suddenly hear him murmur “Daria, it’s ten-thirty, I want to go to sleep. What do you say we play a little game, shall we? Let’s just see who can get to him first!” I glance at him through the shadows, my powerful gaze meeting that of his own.
Then it begins. We must look like a pair as we begin the challenge, he in his wrinkled pajamas waving a towel around maniacally, and I hopping around nimbly with my two cups twitching absurdly if the fly comes within inches of my face. It is a war though, a battle between good and evil, life and death, and the destiny of all flies-to-be, and good must prevail.
After much travail, I spot him perched on the crust of my lampshade, his tiny, beady eyes beckoning to me beseechingly, pleading for me to bring him rest. I slowly crawl towards it, a drop of perspiration making its way down my nose, my cups ready, and my resolve heightened. All I have to do is lift up my hand, scoop its tiny body into the bottom glass, and all will be forgotten but it is too late. Just as my hand lifts to retrieve the poor soul, he flies away in misunderstanding, and my father meets it shamefully with a thump. Helplessly I watch the figure fall, hurtling itself to the ground, my heart breaking into a million pieces. “Maybe you just maimed it!” I let out, the tears unable to come. Bending over my bedside table, I kneel down soberly on my knees to look for the mangled body amid the bits of paper and lint.
All my wretched father can reply is, “Dang it’s still alive.” Before I can stop him he pushes the table further in its direction, the fact that he has robbed this fly of its capabilities not satisfying enough for his savage mind. Trying to calm my cries he adds, “Daria, it would truly be a crime to let him die slowly, now wouldn’t it?” I lift my head in hope. He is coming back, the father I once knew is slowly returning with the softening of his voice.
I pull the piece of furniture away, still bent over my poor beloved fly. And then I see it! His leg is still twitching! Oh what a joy! He begins to crawl, his feet evidently unharmed, but his wings unable to take flight. My dad stands there, unsure of what to do with himself, no doubt feeling the pain of regret that he has injured one of the innocent. Without another word I slide a cup underneath it so that he falls into its depths and quickly place the other over it. I brush past my father, not bothering to look him in the eye. Walking down the stairs and through the empty dining room I carry it cautiously not letting my gaze leave its huddle mass until reaching the front door.
Then I bend down on the porch once again. There is a certain triumph this evening. With the magical glitter of the fireflies and the passing of a lone car on the street down below, there is a success. It is not the kind that you learn of from newspapers, or that your friends discuss in awe, it a quiet victory, an unaccredited service. As the crickets chirp their evening song from where I crouch in darkness, I let the creature out of its cage. And With only the light of the moon, I watch it gently drop onto the smooth cement until it crawls into the mysterious shadows of the warm, summer night.
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