By Michaela Davis False Door Fly
Is he disoriented? Is he trying to pick at my already frayed nerves? Does he have a death wish? His buzz is never steady as he zooms past my ear, too fast for my flailing hand to swat, but so erratic that my finger and his body graze each other. The buzzing varies in a frantic rhythm, faltering each time his body beats against the water-spotted mirror. The mirrored reflections of the medicine cabinets are two more false doors he slams his body into. He skates too high and too close to the bright white heated bulbs, hoping to find an exit in the sunlight of a windowless room. My towel soars through the air in a fit of irritation, hoping for a connection. He veers out of the way as the fabric hits the mirror instead, and circles back around the small space right after escaping death, just to start again.
I feel a stab of sympathy, he will drive himself insane or end his life in the midst of trying to find freedom. And after all, I’ve beat against false doors too. They’ve left me with bruises and a crazed drive to run back around and do it over,
hoping for dents in the wood, or splintered hinges every time. How many times have I wrecked myself looking for a way out? How many times have I seen the pitiful results And tried the same way, hoping for a different outcome? And how many times has my own incessant buzzing been spared by a grace I refuse to show now?
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