fever

I enter the apartment of dark stone and ancient wood where a tomahawk hangs like a trophy collected from a defeated foe above the mantel of a blazing fireplace. My bare feet step over a patchwork of iron vents through which dozens of small fires heat the room, and one of them has ignited a long burgundy sock draped over the back of a wooden chair. The chair smolders also. I hesitate then stamp it out and enter the adjoining bedroom, lifting and rustling cool scarlet sheets, feeling a warm comfort in my heart rekindled. But my older cousin appears in the doorway, reminding me that we must share the bed, and the flame is extinguished. I stomp across the apartment, desperate for solitude, and as if in answer, my cousin disappears and I undress and walk into the bathroom, all checkered tiles and clinical white and shower mirrored on floor and ceiling, creating an infinite vertical shaft out of which a thin black showerhead slithers like an inverted tulip. I spot a large red bug in the corner. I smile and it flutters its rosy wings in a pattern as if to communicate, and the edges of words form in my head but my white-haired uncle barges in and assumes I'm afraid of the bug, so he grabs the delicate insect in his meaty hand and thrusts it toward my face. I flinch, so he throws it at me and I hurry to brush it off and see its broken body drop to the tiles drained of color. One crooked wing shudders then stiffens forever. My uncle laughs and slaps my back and booms, See, isn't it better this way? Face your fear and get it over with! I halfheartedly agree but feel a warm throbbing on my cheek where the insect left its poison.