The Trial - Paige Elizabeth

By August, even the dragonflies become a hazard. Rotten fruit clings to your sneaker soles. Flies swarm the crushed fruit, then you. So you stay inside, but it’s no better. 

You turn on the television, close the windows, flick the blinds shut. The flies make the drenched back of your neck itch. 

A woman from your hometown set fire to her family’s house while they slept. When you see her on the court livestream, body shaking, eyes blinking, all you can see is a ghost. 

You glare at the flies, eye-level. They rub their front legs together, waiting for you to break. You take the kitchen towel and batter them. They fall to the floor, bellies up. The corpses lie there for days, but at least they’re quiet.

The prosecutor reads her medications. In college, they sold the same names to you like samples at the farmers market. Lavender honey. Orange wine. Elderflower jam. You’d said, of course, I’ll try anything that works. 

When your husband comes home, he looks appalled. You still haven’t watered the white lilies he bought you. They are wilting and turning the apartment humid and swamp-like. 

“Of course they’re blaming it on the husband,” your husband says, pouring fresh water in the vase. He wants to have kids soon. The flowers perk up at his touch. 

“Can you at least take out the compost?” You turn the television volume up. “You haven’t left the house since the trial began,” he says louder. You can’t increase the volume any further.

When you open the compost, a strip of mango skin, your husband’s coffee grounds, half of a lemon squeezed dry lie on top. A cloud of fruit flies rushes out at you. What’s the point of killing them, you think.There’s no keeping them out.