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Catesia (standard:horror, 1416 words)
Author: Lev821Added: Apr 26 2007Views/Reads: 2038/1180Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
What is it about the wasp that won't leave the bedsit? Bug spray won't touch this.

Armed with a rolled up newspaper, Raymond Stockton hit out at a large
wasp that had invaded his bedsit, but missed, and hit the frame of a 
print of the Andes in winter. It flew around the shadeless bulb in the 
middle of the room, even though the light was not on. Another swing at 
it produced no effect as it simply flew out of the way. Normally he 
didn't mind wasps, or basically any other insect, as long as they 
didn't invade his home, but this one was an irritant. For three hours 
it had flew around, and had shown no signs of wanting to escape. 
Occasionally it had landed on the ceiling, and proceeded to crawl 
around, as though knowing Raymond didn't want it there, but stayed 
because it knew it was being a pest. It didn't seem to be an ordinary 
wasp. It was black, and around two inches long. Landing on the ceiling 
again, it proceeded on another walkabout, as if it knew it was fairly 
safe from Raymond, who was 46, five feet four inches, with long, 
straggly hair, and a moustache that drooped down the sides of his mouth 
and disappeared into a unkempt stubble. He couldn't hit the ceiling as 
it was eight inches out of reach, and standing on a chair was no use as 
the wasp simply walked or flew away. He wondered what he was going to 
do. It can't stay. Normally, insects, if left, or forgotten about, 
having found their way into a home, simply vanished after a while, and 
are never seen again, but he guessed that this would not be the same. 
He wondered if perhaps it was thinking of building a nest here. Maybe 
conditions were right. Raymond hoped not. He valued his privacy. He 
wasn't exactly a loner, but was very untrustworthy of basically 
everybody. He didn't acknowledge his neighbours, and mostly spoke only 
when spoken to. He liked it that way. Perhaps it was because the news 
was always negative, and bad. It did nothing to promote sociability, 
and simply made people suspicious, certainly of strangers, and 
sometimes friends. Raymond was a product of this line of thought. 
Paranoia had never been so prominent. Ironic in fact, that a simple 
wall can separate strangers at a distance of mere feet, and perhaps 
sometimes inches, yet keep the mentality of privacy satisfied. Yet, his 
solitude had been invaded, and he could not be content knowing that the 
wasp was here. There it was, near the kitchen. It decided to launch 
itself from the ceiling and fly around in a kind of lethargic manner 
that seemed to mean it was in no hurry, was maybe giving itself some 
exercise, or was happy in the fact that it had found a new home. 
Raymond swiped and swiped at it, but it was no use, he missed every 
time. It flew back to the ceiling and began wandering around again, 
seemingly without a care in the world. Bug spray, that's what I need, 
he thought, and saw that he still had time to visit the local 
convenience store that sold virtually everything. After around twenty 
minutes, he came back, armed with a can of ‘Bugged out', but found that 
the wasp had gone, or at least was missing. He stood in the middle of 
the room, can ready to fire, but there was nothing. Perhaps it had 
decided not to make this place its home after all, he thought. After a 
few minutes, he put the can on the window sill, ready to snatch up if 
needed. For the rest of the night, he was aware that it could come from 
anywhere, but it didn't. He couldn't concentrate properly on his 
television, or radio programmes, and five scouts of the bedsit revealed 
nothing, and he went to bed that night satisfied that it had gone. 
Darkness pervaded the room, and Raymond had been asleep an hour, 
unaware that other eyes were looking down from the ceiling. The wasp 
was satisfied that he was fast asleep, and flew down and landed on his 
pillow. It scuttled beneath his thin duvet and clambered onto his 
stomach. Raymond was awoken by a sharp stabbing, as though he had been 
jabbed by a dart. He flung the duvet back, and managed to switch on the 
bedside light. The instant he did, he saw that hovering, inches from 
his face, was the wasp, only this time, he saw its face. It was human, 
and watched him for two seconds before flying away, out of his sight. 
No, it can't be, he thought, clutching his aching stomach. Impossible. 
He recognised the face. It was of his best friend, who had died two 
months ago in prison. No way, Raymond thought, breathing heavily. Was 
this part of a dream? A nightmare? The pain told him that it was not, 
but what about the wasp's face? Perhaps that part was a dream, he 
thought. He did after all jolt from sleep. Yes, he thought. The wasp 
had stung him, and now it was going to die anyway. He was satisfied 
with that explanation, and went back to sleep, and found himself in the 
morning, staring out of the window of his bedsit, at the road below, 
but not really seeing it, as he was thinking of his friend whom the 
wasp had reminded him of. Charlie Benson. Raymond missed him, but, 
standards had to be kept, rules maintained, and the fact that Charlie 
had crossed one line, meant the severing of a fifteen year old 
friendship that Raymond had dissolved. Charlie had been good on 
computers. He was quite adept at using the information superhighway and 

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