The Mosquito

by B.A. Paris

He hadn’t slept at all, for many reasons. The first two were physical. He was in a strange house in a strange bed, and since nightfall, he’d been plagued by a mosquito buzzing in his ear.

Rupert’s eyes—set a little too close together—widened. “What, she left you for no good reason?”

Rupert was definitely bringing out the worst in him. He needed to get a grip.

It seemed to Michael that he was caught in a circle of obsession; Rupert was obsessed with him, and he was obsessed with the mosquito. Something was going to have to give.

His eyes searched the room and came to rest on Rupert’s face. And there, on his forehead, was the mosquito, sucking intently on Rupert’s blood. Without even thinking, Michael turned to the chimney, unhooked the bread shovel from beside the oven, and used it to smack the mosquito out of existence.