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bugsonbugson - (Old) Bugsmacker — Description

They're everywhere I know. My sheets, my walls, my thoughts. Everywhere I call home has these skittering nasty things all over it.
I hate them, their ticklish bodies make their way in and over skin, their nasty mitts taint my every meal, and worst of all: They buzz. Day in day out it's buzzing with those things. Their grinning babyish faces mock my every attempt to shut them up. Every day I smack the reincarnation of this month-long curse into silence, but the silence never lasts long enough. There's no solace in this life, just buzzing.
The hum continues as their bodies crunch between my teeth, I spit the vibrating vermin onto my plate, again. Their maggots squirm their way into my every meal, there's not a day their insides don't find a way into mine. Slimy, a taste like rotten nuts. They buzz within me, it's a never ending torture.
The kitty down my street likes to visit, he gnaws on those nasty things like a royal feast. I open the door and let him pad around my home with his filthy mitts. He's my boyish hunter; barely a man. He makes a mess eating the nastiest things, then expects me to treat him for the good boy he's been. I drag him to the sink and brush his decaying teeth. Furry hair's sting between delicate fingers makes me dig harder into fragile skin. Spit, drool and gags fill the room. Repeated squirms against the porcelain bowl until brown turns to red. He scowls as I release him, the rumble of his snarl deserving of a smack.
I stroked over a lowered head, assure him the impact of my palm wasn't to squish the remnants of what remained.
Kitty likes to lap at me, clean my fur and seek out milk. I let him search me for those nasty things. He likes to push his luck, but gets smacked all the same. Head low on my abdomen, doe eyes meet mine. I cover them with stained hands, he sluggishly lifts his head to lick them clean.
Their buzz surrounds us while we lay intertwined, the flickering light above the littlest distraction for the pests. Kitty's slow breaths travel over bare skin, weary eyes heavy with the burden of life. I swat at any buzzing nuisance that lay a paw upon his bumpy skin.
Day by day Kitty plays in my kitchen, smacking into windows and sinking his teeth into the twitching bugs on the windowsill. When his breath turns to huffs and puffs he turns to me with a Cheshire grin. Purred pleas turn to whines as he is treated for what he is: a stray.
No matter how many he rids of they always return. And each time I find my front door ajar, a bowl of milk left out front. I wait for Kitty to bring me more of that sweet silence, he always does. Each time he moves with a renewed determination, slender form twisting and turning just to have another vermin in his grip. In the silence of the night he shows me his bloodied gums.
The sheets don't crawl up my spine as I watch the flickering light. Kitty's eagerness has my chest wet and sore. Each flicker is accompanied by an increasingly louder buzz. They're crawling across my eyes, dark splotches limiting my vision. They're everywhere I know.
Kitty's bare body hits the ground, he whines at my barks for him to do what he is here for. He gets to his feet like a proper feline, wherever I point is met with his less-than-enthusiastic smack.
I chew on the soft and tolerable, for it to be tainted by a crunch. I drag Kitty to his knees, and spit the quivering mush into his eager mouth. The bathroom holds the sound of chokes and sobs, heard even through strained chews held back by that continuous buzz. Sluggish steps replace the sound, and work towards that peaceful silence.
Kitty lay sluggishly beneath flickering light, the pests drank at the red dripping from his lips. I swat at his skin, painting it with the brownish pulp he loves. I expose my palm to the lazy boy, and he does what he knows best. Saliva-covered hand strokes over sharp strands, staining his bright hair a subtle crimson.
Kitty loves to lap for milk, even now he has to maneuver past a growing belly. The door and windows shut, he's grown past being stray. He likes to scratch and beg at the door, believing he's deserving of freedom. But he doesn't dare hiss. The bathroom reeks of his incontinence, a boy never trained to be a man. It attracts the buzzing, I can't stand the sound. He begs and screams, but I won't stop until they do.
Kitty's bloodied everything crawls onto the covers, head gently laid upon my bump. There isn't a glance down, eyes only on mine. My hands reach for him to lick away the stains he left on me.
Mewls now muffle the continuous buzz, the babyish face that have mocked me for so long now a new shape in my arms. It babbles and crawls, ruins my sheets, rips the wallpaper, take up every cranny of my mind. Everywhere I call home has this whining nasty thing all over it.
Kitty whines as it sucks my teet. He tries to worm his way in the one arm I have for myself, cries in a way he thinks I would care for. I point towards the humming room, the silent command was heard through the loudness of the all.
I hate them, their endless pleas make my ears ring, their nasty mouths make my breast ache, and worst of all: their cries. Day in day out it's crying and whining with those things. Their grimacing babyish faces mock my every attempt to shut them up. Every day I smack the reincarnation of this 9 months-long curse into silence, but the silence never lasts long enough. There's no solace in this life, just trembling cries.