The Mosquito

by B.A. Paris

The first two were physical. He was in a strange house in a strange bed, and since nightfall,

Michael was a kind man. He hated confrontation, and one of his biggest fears was hurting people’s feelings.

him and Julie; his sister, Kate, and her husband, Simon; their friends Saskia and Nathan; and Rupert and Angelica, whom Michael had never met. Then, three months ago, Julie had left him, and Angelica had died.

two months after being diagnosed with a particularly aggressive form of cancer, he had really felt for Rupert.

“You’re too nice, Michael,” she’d said, pleading with him to understand. “I need someone who can stand up to me.”

he’d been smothering an unusual and unexpected spark of anger at being rejected for being too nice.

Michael collapsed onto his bed. He had finally managed to kill the damn mosquito.

For someone who had never played golf, Rupert was extremely critical, questioning everything from Michael’s stance to his swing to his choice of clubs. His focus was entirely on Michael, not on Simon or Nathan, who became irritated by Rupert’s continual haranguing of Michael, explaining that he was by far the best player.

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.

He knew instinctively that Rupert was dead but felt a surprising lack of guilt.