MITCHEL MONTAGNA
Bedbugs
When he opened his eyes, the bedside clock glowed 2:33 a.m. He watched as a digit snapped, to 2:34, and he flinched—in mind, if not in body.
Morton hadn’t been sleeping; he’d been pretending, killing time. He was completely, utterly awake, as he usually was as night crept into its deepest, blackest corners. Morton's insomnia distressed him. He still clung to the belief that he was a decent, upstanding guy; he felt that during these hours, people ought to be asleep. Good people like him, anyway.
Tonight he also suffered from another chronic condition, a headache, which pounded each temple like a bass and released cascades of sweat along his brows, underarms, and back. Meanwhile, a nasty itch burrowed like something alive into his right foot. What the hell was that, he wondered. But he lacked the will to bend his no-longer agile body to examine the irritation. He kept brushing it with his other foot, which didn’t help.
Morton used to be a creature of habit. Repetition had kept him on task, ensured that at any given moment, he was doing the right thing. Like every week day the alarm buzzed at 6 a.m. to wake him; a shower, then a breakfast of Raisin Bran and coffee. At 7:10, he commenced his drive to work. And so on. (Back in the day he’d always been asleep by midnight—unless something and or exotic was happening in his life.) A strict timetable provided his best chance to succeed, he felt—or at least, to get through the day whole.
But there were drawbacks. When life’s unexpected twists disrupted his schedule, he grew frustrated and his nerves tautened like screws. His heart raced and his breathing got difficult. He couldn’t think clearly, fixating on what he thought he should be doing instead of attending to the issue at hand. Morton was ashamed of this weakness, and he tried to hide it. He pretended he was someone he wasn’t: a man with calm nerves, unflappable and always in control.
But the charade was strenuous, and it wore Morton down. He was able to fool people for only so long. For example, his wife. He’d been 30 when they married; 39 when they split. More and more during their life together, his anxiety had erupted into anger, much of it childish and vulgar. He'd stomp around, cursing and spitting vitriol. Sometimes he couldn’t believe his own behavior. But he was unable to stop, especially as his outbursts seemed to ease his tension.
He came to loathe his job, once a wellspring of status and accomplishment. By mid-career his professional advancement had stopped abruptly, like a cartoon figure running into a wall. Younger colleagues leapfrogged him for promotions, then sadistically ordered him around.
At 50, Morton was fired, or “downsized,” as they called it. They claimed it was due to budget cuts, that he shouldn’t take it personally. But the simple truth was, nobody wanted his cynical, burnt-out ass around anymore.
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A year later, Morton remained unemployed. Without a profession or family to ground him, he felt fogged-in and unbalanced. Time was a sea of muck; it barely stirred—much like Morton himself. He spent days lurching from bed to couch to chair; drinking scotch and watching pornographic dreck on his laptop.
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Finally, as he lay, exhaustion found him. He went numb and dark. He dreamed: The next thing he knew, he was standing by his bed. A guy stood with him—one he recognized from work but whom he hadn’t seen in years, Tommy or Teddy, something like that. The man hadn’t changed, was still stubby with glasses and a cheerful gleam in his eyes.
How far back did they go? Some 10 or 20 years? The jolly eyes reminded Morton of the man’s demeanor, eager and energetic, and Morton at the time they'd known each other felt the same, certain he too had a promising future. The window near Morton’s bed filled with a dazzling sunshine that streamed through the room, and Morton felt an uplifting warmth as his former colleague said to him, “You know, all use guys were jealous when you and Debbie married. Damn, she was stunning.”
It was true. Debbie had always drawn a lot of male attention, from veiled glances to outrageous flirting.
Morton grinned. “We’re still going strong,” he bragged. “In fact, we’re doing so well, she doesn’t need to work anymore.”
The guy said, “No surprise there, Morton. Anyone with eyes could see you were going places.”
Morton said something modest, but inside he was gloating, yeah, I kicked ass.
“Why’d you cheat on her?” Tommy or Teddy said. “That was cold, man.”
“What?” Morton was genuinely confused.
“C’mon, you and Jill. Everyone knew.” The guy playfully elbowed Morton. “You sly dog, you.”
Well, Morton thought. Maybe he had. Lots of guys did it, just part of the formular for go-getters.
“And how you pulled off that media campaign,” the guy said, “while juggling two gals." The guy kissed his fingertips. "Bellissimo! A masterpiece."
“Heh heh. Thank you. Thank you.” They shook hands, Morton preening with self -satisfaction.
Quickly the sun dimmed, like a blanket thrown over a light, and Morton was alone. Shadows invaded the room. The air chilled. Morton’s bed was stripped of sheets and blankets but wasn’t bare. Instead, it was covered—infested—with small, writhing creatures.
Morton saw glossy roaches and water bugs scurrying in circles. Their shells looked diamond-hard, but suggestive of filth underneath. Carpenter ants, long as twigs, zig-zagged around. Furry caterpillars curled their bodies. Ink-black spiders revealed ominous patches on their bellies. Dozens of each, rummaging wildly as if Morton’s bed was their natural habitat. He watched, mesmerized, as antennas scraped together and microscopic legs hurried. Some creatures burrowed into the mattress, gouging slits and disappearing as others followed.
Morton oversaw the invasion without emotion, reserving judgment. Till he saw a new battalion of water bugs climbing up from the floor. They were of a different breed, as large as toads, with finger-length antennas that probed and prodded. Their eyes were black, round and dead as space. They began to eat the others, slurping them up like worms. Struggling legs protruded from the primordial slits of their mouths.
Morton recoiled and his mouth hinged open.
Then he was awake, horizontal in bed. Without bugs, but with his foot still inflamed. He no longer could ignore it; he sat up, reached under his covers and grabbed his foot. He pulled it toward his face.
Morton was shocked to see the foot drenched in sticky, gleaming blood. Some patches looked scarlet, and there were purplish scabs. Blood bubbled from a slit in the middle of the arch, streaming over his ankle and onto his sheet. Pain quickly sharpened, like someone was cruelly rotating an embedded spike.
Morton unleashed the scream he’d begun in his dream, a howl from beneath his belly and tore through his guts like bile.
His voice faded. The bedside clock switched to 2:35. Morton called out again, desperately. For he feared loneliness more than anything, even the vilest and craftiest of blood-sucking insects.
THE END