A Fly on the Wall

1944

Still approximately 1,042.857 housefly lifetimes before my time. Margherita sits at a desk, ballpoint pen nestled in her palm.

“Nella. What a success! Perhaps you remember that I had been crafting a ‘biography’– or shall I say, exposé– about Benito for the past several years, ever since I fled. I will admit, I may have fabricated a small portion of the content, but the majority is as accurate a representation as possible of my ire after he left me for his new lover in a toothbrush mustache.

“I was victimized– or at least for the purposes of the book I was. It seems a convincing story, and I must stress, the majority of it does indeed call a spade a spade, as much of a joker as he was.

“I write to you, Nella, because I have just received word from my agent that my book has been translated into eighteen languages! Eighteen!” I take another crooked lap around the theatre and seemingly draw the ire of some equally fidgety audience members.

“I dare say, I have finally accomplished what I set out to achieve: power uninhibited by arbitrary borders.

“Nella, I have quite literally written my own narrative.

“I urge you to distribute my book to all you meet. I assume it may be difficult to do so in times of war, but copies seem to be scurrying off the shelves nonetheless!

“Nella, do tell me how you and Paolo are faring back in Italy. I know I said I would try to make the situation better there for our kind. I must have gotten preoccupied with the biography. I hope this has not imposed any burden upon your and Paolo’s shoulders.

“Warmly, Margie.” Lights out. I take a halted lap in search of food. I am getting hollower by the instant.

Lights up. Margherita, Nella, Rectangle Man, and the elegantly-coiffed signor Cesare hold one another’s hands and bow in front of a messy cacophony of the audience’s applause. The playwright walks onto the stage once again.

Even in my impaired state, I can see that this man is admirable. His play may have been confusing and at times, poorly-written (I am one to judge), but wow– Cyrus Sarfaty is 6-feet, 1 ¾-inch of pure greatness, from my vantage point. And is that a basket of fruits that he’s just been handed? Mmm.

I fly closer to get a better look. Where’d my wrist go again? Did I ever sort that out? I’m still ravenous. What am I flying toward again– CAN’T I FLY ANY HIGHER–

 In the blink of an eye (or five eyes, in my case), the sweaty, flat palm of a male stagehand clips my wing. I freefall toward the hard ground devoid of any dignity I may have possessed upon my ascent.

Ow. That stings.

Because my name is Unnamed Housefly, and I want out.