Sometimes, Bob thought that he might be able to feel at home if it wasn’t for the insects. They crawled over every surface, hid in every corner. In the middle of the night he could hear them scurrying through the walls, across the floor, across the ceiling. Tiny legs in the dark.
He’d tried pesticides. Tried poisons. Tried exterminators. The insects would be quiet for a day or two. Moments of silence, precious as diamonds, shining, pure.
And then he’d hear the first movement, deep in the dead of midnight. He’d tell himself it was a dream. They were gone.
The next day they’d be back, crawling over every surface. He stomped and punched and swatted, but never hit anything. Like clutching at mist.
His sister came over for tea and said nothing, even when a bug landed on her shoulder, feelers tickling her neck.
“What do I do?” he asked.
“About the insects.” He pointed, finger shaking.
She looked at him and shook her head. “There are no insects, Bob.”
No insects. No noises. No crawling in the night. All in his head.
He looked down at his cup and saw an insect staring back.
Word Count: 200
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction.