by Hobie Anthony
Newborn silverfish swarm. Crusty-dry worm bodies move as a mass over the carpet. They spawn under the sofa and every two weeks or so a new generation moves out over the room. I will sweep them up, but they always come back. For now, I watch their aimless migration.
I hear thumping and moaning through the ceiling. New girls in the house, naked and on their knees. Fresh meat, the men say. Always women coming and going. I have to clean up after them, too. I watch how each one arrives, fleshy, eyes aware. After a few months each leaves hollow-eyed, black teeth, withered breasts. We have the best shit in town. Maybe the best in the world. I don’t know. I don’t touch it. I’m the caretaker here. I only deliver it and keep secrets for the drug makers.
The moans become screams. The insects pour out on the floor. A rat scrambles in the wall, scurrying for a home or food. His desperation increases. Soon I will smell his corpse and kill death-flies and he will decompose in the dark.