Stinkbugs

I am Spinette.

I am currently being terrorized by a stinkbug.

It flaps its wings at sudden intervals, sending a fearful sting through my chest and sweat drooping down my spine.

He stares at me for a moment, then flies closer, but then, fortunately, flies in another direction, mocking me.

I feel as if though tiny ants are crawling up my neck and have instinctual urges to say “Oh god” and slap some random place of my body as if killing a mosquito.

Then the popping starts.

Pop. pop. pop.

It’s the children of that foul beast, I tell myself, as my sweat gets colder.

They get louder.

My sweat has officially reached 0 degrees Celsius and now is frozen to my back.

The feeling of ants crawls up even higher, colonizing my hair.

The stinkbug flies closer, sitting on the window, wings fluttering.

More popping.

It seems to be coming from behind, so I quickly turn my head, seeing nothing but an empty brown office chair.

It flies closer, this time on my computer mouse.

I lean away, silently screaming, eyes wide in horror.

Another stinkbug files overhead.

I stifle my silent screams.

I rub my knees together, hopefully generating enough heat to will the foul beasts away.

Eerily, he reminds me of myself, but only distantly.

The stinkbug is on my nose.

He likes the heat.

I scream.

Loud.

 

 

 

 

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