I’ve always disliked it when people refer to insects as “having a blood meal” when they bite you. It causes me to have detailed thoughts of the process and reminds me of a documentary I once saw on vampire bats that were feeding on the neck of a cow, a poor defenceless cow with fifteen or twenty bats latched onto its neck with blood slowly dripping to the ground. I don’t know if they added sound effects, but you could hear the bats drinking…it sounded like someone slowly chewing a banana with their mouth open. Unlike the mountains of Piano D’Arta where biting insects were next to non-existent, the cornfields of Iutizzio have been merciless over the past twenty-four hours; I’ve counted 30 bites on my legs alone. I’m thankful for the discipline my mother spoke of yesterday…I may itch, but I will not scratch.
Before going to sleep I surveyed my room for predators. Having found none, I assumed I was relatively safe. Not fifteen seconds after I turned off the light did the buzzing start. I was determined to get a good night’s sleep but I couldn’t locate the mosquito. Each time I would turn off the light the buzzing would start again. Eventually I resigned myself to the futility of it all and gave up. A bite or two was OK as long as it wasn’t on my face or ears; those bites will drive you crazy. Besides, I’m no masochist and took no pleasure from swatting myself in the face in the dark.
Lights off, the faint buzzing started and then stopped. I felt them. Two mosquitoes landed in quick succession. One on my palm on the chunky part of the base of the thumb, the other on my forearm. They moved around slightly and then finding their target through some prehistoric sensory mechanism they settled in and drank. I had become the blood meal. The darkness and calm of sleep washed over me.
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