Mosquitoland

by David Arnold

(Every great character, Iz, be it on page or screen, is multidimensional. The good guys aren’t all good, the bad guys aren’t all bad, and any character wholly one or the other shouldn’t exist at all. Remember this when I describe the antics that follow, for though I am not a villain, I am not immune to villainy.)

I’m feeling reckless—or honest, maybe. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell the difference.

“I was lovely once,” she whispered. “But he never loved me once.”

“I think my dad is a good man who has succumbed to the madness of the world.”

I am a collection of oddities, a circus of neurons and electrons: my heart is the ringmaster, my soul is the trapeze artist, and the world is my audience. It sounds strange because it is, and it is, because I am strange.

Sometimes, things are more embarrassing when you’re alone. I guess when no one’s around to hear your stupidity, you’re forced to bear the brunt of it.

For the rest of the walk, I strike the perfect balance between happy and miserable, which is, surprisingly, a narrow margin.

(Yeah, okay, that’s weird, but I’m being honest here—before I ever knew about sex, it knew about me.)

“You ever have the feeling you lost something important, only to discover it was never there to begin with?”

I am a child. I know nothing about anything. And even less about everything.