bugged

As I sit and write and think, my attention is drawn to that bit of my shoulder which suddenly requests my left hand’s attention. Scratching does not really help, but at least one thinks one is taking some kind of counteraction. Little bumps appear on my skin, red, ugly, and after a good scratch, adorned with a drop of liquid. I feel unclean. I shower and change into different clothes and chuck my old ones in the wash. Bleach is my friend. I look for the little culprits under bed, on armchair, behind wardrobe, between the cracks on walls, floors, under my neighbour’s shoes, within the crevices of my mind, but there is no sign of them anywhere. Nada. The bites swell up a bit, then fade. Nothing that will kill me, but the thought of those little mandibles that certainly have never seen a mandible brush in their lifetime. Ever heard of sting brushes? Prick brushes? Exactly. I clean the whole room thoroughly, which takes me a whole daylight. I throw out my carpets, and boil the bedding, I read up on all kind of nasty and buy kill-it-all insecticide called Cobra: venom against anything that creeps, crawls, flies, buzzes, annoys, unnerves. I spray my only room, in anger. The stench could kill a mammoth, and will most likely have some radiation content and cause three different kinds of cancer. How dare they trouble my peace? How dare they come and take over my sanctuary, my foxhole? I alone pay the rent. I refuse to cohabitate with anything that draws my blood, does not speak to me, nor share my food (or, for that matter, and let us be precise, sharing for me is defined by my explicit or implicit consent, we are not talking about stealing). As I am reviewing the seal of my fridge, the thought of paranoia does cross my mind. I was loaded for bear but not this. If at least I could see them. They would be easier to exterminate. Fleas can be crushed if you have nails. Seeing them would also ease the decision whether the best solution is indeed, extermination, or rather, 112, or immediate flight. Something that you can name makes it already more harmless, and I could determine which illnesses the bugs in the specific case are vectors for and draw up an action plan. The indeterminateness of the situation drives me up the walls, but the culprits remain unfound. The invisible has become a priority in my life all of a sudden, and I consider moving house, even emigrating because of it. I must have been stung from the inside. Something wants out! But what is bugging me?

Next time you have nothing to do look up the etymology of bugger. I was surprised by the link with ‘Bulgar’, one of these Others who do not have the right religion, and hence, must be living in all kinds of sin.