Bloody insects
- Davide Coradeschi
- Aug 23
- 8 min read
The faint light coming from the closed shutters of the room announced to Fabio that the day would not be as sunny as he had hoped. He had arrived the previous evening, exhausted, after a bloody business meeting that had forced him to leave at eighteen o'clock instead of twelve-thirty as he had budgeted. Usually, in the absence of traffic, one could reach his beach house from the city in an hour and a half. However, the accomplice of a stupid truck and the road strewn with construction sites, Fabio had delayed by a good thirty minutes. He had therefore arrived at twenty o'clock and, exhausted and with the stores now closed, had gone to the usual pizzeria nearby, where he had consumed the usual cooked and mushroom pizza. After paying and going out, for a moment he had been tempted to console himself with the excellent cream and chocolate cone from his favorite ice cream parlor but, dissuaded by an annoying circle in his head, had gone straight home.
Sleep was stormy; going to bed without having digested had condemned him to such a sweat that the next day he was forced to change the sheets. Also complicit in that heat had been, Fabio knew well, the broken air conditioner. The last tenants to whom he had rented the house for the bridge of April Twenty-fifth were the unfortunate parents of a pestiferous four-year-old Damien (what else could that child be, if not an Antichrist), who had found it amusing to throw balls left and right inside the house. As he was intent on throwing a swarm of curses at him, a flash flashed through his mind: It's my fault, let's not take the piss. It was he, in fact, who had been tergiversating, in an attempt to fool them. He had wanted to ask for an estimate for the repair and then, once he knew the figure, ask the unfortunate parents for an increased price. At the time it had seemed like a brilliant idea to him: unknowingly taxing them for raising such a jerk. The plan, however, had backfired on him when the plumbing company forgot to submit the requested estimate. Finally, here was another culprit to point at. He had wanted to ask for an estimate for the repair and then, once he knew the figure, ask the unfortunate parents for an increased price. At the time it had seemed like a brilliant idea to him: unknowingly taxing them for raising such a jerk. The plan, however, had backfired on him when the plumbing company forgot to submit the requested estimate. Finally, here was another culprit to point at. He stood up pimply, dancing to the sound of improper words hurled at the poor plumbers, and threw open the shutters determined to fight the stale air in the bedroom. Sure, I could have kept them open. What the heck, another egregious mistake made and no culprit other than the figure in the mirror. In fact, Fabio had the answer ready: the bar next door. He vividly remembered falling asleep lulled by the muffled sound of the chatter of the bar's patrons. With the window open, he would never be able to fall asleep.
Once he put his head out, he quickly realized that his wish to be greeted by a clear summer day, ideal for a relaxing beach and sea session, had not been granted. The sky was laden with clouds, though not leaden; they were not rain-laden clouds, but dense enough not to allow the sun to peep through. Not bad, he thought. Legend has it that you get a tan anyway even with cloudy skies. During breakfast a strong wind rose. Fabio went to the beach to the rhythm of the tinkling of the masts of the harbor boats, moved by that relentless breeze. The wind, however, did not bother him; on the contrary, he had always found it a refreshment to the heat given off by the boiling sand. It would probably have prevented him from bathing, but as it was only the second week of June, he would not have minded so much. Although it was only nine o'clock, Fabio found the beach crowded. He would not have been able to sit in his chair where he loved best, which was very close to the shoreline, where he loved to be lulled by the sound of the waves while reading his beloved books. There was still some space near the sea, but it was occupied by his deadliest enemies: families with small children, couples with dogs, small groups of young boys convinced they would not bother anyone by running after a ball. He would not allow that army of troublemakers to mar his peace. He positioned himself in the middle, away from everyone and, lulled by the wind that kept him safe from the heat, prepared to enjoy his moment of serenity. The sea was so loud that it allowed the sound of the waves to reach up there and, no less, to cover the squawks of that execrable rabble. What a delight.
The peace, unfortunately, was short-lived. After not even an hour a group of young boys, at first intent on playing by the sea, moved toward him. They had probably been yelled at for the splashes of water and sand they were raising in that infernal bedlam they call "play," and instead of settling in a more secluded place, they had knowingly opted to go and break the soul of another poor innocent. Fabio, already hit by two lobs, stood up and intimated to them to go farther away. They did not compute him at all. Really, did a man as tall and scurvy as he was inspire much less fear than a group of flabby and frustrated mothers? There was nothing left for him to do but let go and move closer to the water, hoping that the gurgling of the sea would cover any screams and barks.
And there he was, sitting on the shore reading. Had he been wearing a red shirt he might very well have had the features of the world's worst lifeguard, such was his concentration on the book and total indifference to what was going on around him. There were attempts to distract him, not a few to tell the truth: to begin with, a soggy little dog came shaking in front of him, wetting both his costume and the book. Fabio's jaw clenched, and his mind wandered for a moment into dark realities, all of which were hopelessly fatal to the little animal. However, the plot of the novel, fortunately for that mutt, was too compelling, so compelling that even the screams and splashing of a child intent on building a sand castle of dubious structural integrity could not distract him. It was almost time to return for lunch when the worst happened. The wind, as it had come, was gone. The sea quieted down and its flat calm inevitably lifted that intolerable tide of cackling. In addition, a suffocating cloak of humidity descended over the entire beach. The stifling heat, although it had effortlessly succeeded in lowering Fabio's concentration, had apparently not dampened the unbearable enthusiasm of all the rest of those present. The end of the book was so close... Hang on, it's only a matter of a little while, then you can escape home, Fabio thought, in desperate anger, when they arrived. They, the most feared adversaries: The insects. Damn insects. Fabio in his heart knew it, knew that moment would come, as soon as the wind died down. Those pesky creatures, in the flat calm that allowed them to flutter around their prey, could make a day at sea a living hell. His thoughts, filled with wrath, immediately ran to that obnoxious mistral that had left a moment before he was allowed to finish the novel. At most in ten minutes, he could have escaped from that torture, with the ending of the story in his head to ponder. At that point, even the plague of locusts could have been unleashed on that beach, for all he cared. Instead, there he was, stuck on the edge of success. His jaw was so contracted that it hurt, and anger had stained the skin of his face as a day of intense sunshine could not have done. He wanted to get up and kick the air for so cowardly stabbing him in the back. Unfortunately, just then the little dog from before had passed in front of him again. Standing up and kicking it was a moment. The animal's yelps, instead of bringing him back to his senses, fomented him even more. With a sudden jerk Fabio grabbed the chair and, after folding it up, smashed it over the head of the obnoxious child's father. The memory of the ugliness of the sand castle built just before, which had had no other purpose than to disturb his reading, drove him mad. After knocking the father unconscious, he grabbed the little boy, who had watched the scene distraught, by the neck and threw him to the ground. Then, taking the bucket, weighed down by the wet sand with which it had again been filled, he struck him until his head was smashed in. In vain had been the desperate intervention of the mother, whose screams and jerks had only hastened her son's passing. The sight of the sand, darkened by blood and mixed with the crushed brain, made Fabio quiver with pleasure. In his mind he had laughed, while in the ears of the astonished crowd had resounded the scream of a madman. Grabbing him by the leg, he spun the helpless little body around at such a speed that the onlookers were hit by streams of blood and brain matter. A couple of them vomited and two ladies lost consciousness. Achieving the right momentum he hurled the corpse far out to sea. Then, with the enthusiasm of a thespian aware of the arrival of the grand finale, he launched himself toward the small group of kids who had forced him to move. In the welter, the insects had not ceased their hunt. Fabio's body was full of red dots. The sweat that gushed out during the gruesome spectacle had caused many of the insects to drown dead on his skin. In any case, itching was the least of his problems. Once justice was done, he would dive into the sea and the salt water would give him refreshment. Fortunately for him, the huddle formed around him had prevented the group of young people from seeing what was happening on the shoreline. All they found before their eyes was a madman all red in the face running in their direction. The moment one of them, closest to Fabio as the crow flies, realized that his face and costume were stained with something other than sand, it was already too late. Fabio pounced on him like a panther and straddled him, pinning his arms with his hands. He hit him with a headbutt, then a second, finally a third, until he sensed the boy's nose shatter. Then Fabio, removing his hands from his arms, lifted them up and forcefully lowered his thumbs inside his victim's eye sockets, turned them over a couple of times, with the grace of a pizza maker rolling out pizza dough, and pulled them out, smeared with a mush of blood and eye. Smiling at the boy's desperate screams, he took care to pick up a handful of sand and filled the now empty eye sockets with it. Finally, as if that last act of perfidy had completely dispelled his madness, he got up and returned as if nothing had happened to the shore, accompanied by the horrified gaze of those present. He picked up his book from the ground and, sitting on the ground crossing his legs, resumed his reading. Some of the words had become soiled by sand and blood on his hands; however, Fabio, with his lucidity now perfectly regained, could effortlessly understand the meaning of the sentences. A few, endless minutes had passed when Fabio, irritably slamming the book to the floor, now ten pages from the end, turned his hearing to the echoes of ambulance and police sirens coming from the street.
Fucking insects. Out now for L'Idiot Digital.
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