November Mosquito

It was a balmy November morning when Mr Mosquito stretched his long legs for the very first time, and started to crawl out of his egg like a Houdini. He quickly swam to the surface, focused his big, dark eyes, and took a good look around him: “Wow, it’s the world!”, he shouted to himself, as his wings suddenly started fluttering, quickly lifting him up tens of metres into the sky. He could see the whole neighbourhood stretching before him: the little puddle, the trees, the Shell gas station with its mesmerising bright lights next to the busy highway. He had his whole life ahead of him. The world was his oyster.

Mr Human stretched his legs and opened his eyes for barely a blink, detecting the half-light coming from the window: it was dark blue but getting brighter by the minute. Pausing his breathing for a few seconds, he ran through his head like a computer runs through its CPU. He had never been a late sleeper, not even on a weekend. The tyranny of thoughts running through his brain was the most reliable alarm clock anyone could ever ask for. Trampling over blankets and clothes on the floor, he limped over to the bathroom in a half-asleep state. It had been another heavy, unusually warm November night. But it was Sunday, thank fuck. The world was his oyster.

It wasn’t long before he was down at the beach around noon, walking barefoot on the sand next to the water. It was the perfect time of year to enjoy the waterfront without the loud, obnoxious crowds of tourists. Even the highway seemed to have gone on hibernation, with only the occasional car reminding him that there’s a busy, polluting road next to the beach. He finished his beach stroll, picked up a plastic-wrapped frozen pizza at the Shell gas station to throw in the oven, filled up the tank to the max and started driving home. He wasn’t feeling like doing anything too involved tonight, still recovering from a crazy week at work and already feeling the Sunday blues. Over the years he had come to accept that the only antidote to his abusive job was distraction. It was going to be another lazy evening of alternating between Netflix and porn.

A week passed, and Mr Mosquito was already a grandfather. He had lived a good life and was grateful for all the experiences he had had. Flying by a hospital window, he noticed a familiar smell. Looking inside, he saw Mr Human. He ventured in, finding him lying in a comatose state: West Nile Virus Encephalitis, contracted through mosquito bite. Mr. Mosquito had little strength at this point. He was old and weak, and his own life was coming to its natural conclusion. He approached the bed, landed onto the blood red roses beautifully arranged by the patient’s bedside, and carefully crawled into one. It smelled nice, despite the fact that the roses had been flown in from Amsterdam in a fridge seven days ago, and preserved by chemicals. Inside the flower, the harsh hospital light was filtered by the petals creating a relaxing, faint rosy glow. Mr Mosquito waited there for a few hours until his heart eventually stopped, just as Mr Human’s cardiac monitor alarm sounded Code Blue. They died together.

For what it’s worth, it turns out that Mr Mosquito wasn’t the one who had stung Mr Human. Male mosquitos do not drink blood, they are strictly vegan, subsisting on flower nectar and juices. It is the females who drink blood, as they need protein for egg production. The smell that had drawn Mr Mosquito through the window was not Mr Human, but the roses.

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