Wasps 3 : The Quickening

2 months have passed. I have grown a beard. Not because of lack of access to shaving facilities, I have stuff in the flat. No, it is a beard of suffering. A beard of wasp enforced solitude. There are so many outside my windows that I am in constant darkness. I think I angered them a few weeks ago. Somehow one of them had got into the flat. I trapped it in the kitchen and hoped it would tire itself out and die. For 2 hours I sat and listened as it bounced into wall and window, before the sound stopped and I peered in. The wasp lay on its back, seemingly expired. I picked it up using my trusty Guardian and set it down on the table in front of the main window. The legs moved ever so slightly, as if in death throes and I bowed my head in respect. I could feel the hundreds of compound eyes on me and I felt obliged to allow their brother/sister a dignified death. Then it made a strong loud buzzing noise and instinct kicked in. In a flash I had lifted the paper and brought it down on the already mortally wounded beast, spreading it across the table like so much evil pate.

The noise of the wasps outside increased to a howl. I have just executed one of them, I thought, in cold blood no less. I remembered reading somewhere that when you squished a wasp, it left a scent that attracted other wasps. "Bent on revenge no doubt" I mumbled to myself. My god, what would they do to me now? In an effort to repair the damage already done, I scooped the remains of the fallen one into a match box and, head bowed, placed it on the window ledge before backing away.

Since then I have locked myself in the bathroom with only hastily grabbed fig rolls and hot chocolate granules to sustain me. Outside I can hear the wasps chewing through my cardboard defences, inching closer and closer to me. I feel like Saddam Hussain. I imagine myself as a sexy dictator of some sort of sexy Amazon land full of half naked women being sexy and stuff...woah. The sound of wasp outside my door has suddenly gotten louder. They are in the flat. The cardboard defences have failed me. The sound is deafening and I am now huddled behind the toilet, praying for a quick death.

Its morning. And what's more its quiet. I must've finally fallen asleep. I crawl across the floor to the bathroom door. I cannot hear a thing. I will risk a look. I carefully peel back the door and dart my head out. The first thing I notice is the distinct lack of wasps in the room. This is good. Next thing I notice is that my wooden table and chairs are gone. I really don't want to see the wasps that carried that stuff out, I think to myself moronically. I venture further into the room. Light is once more pouring into the flat and I notice that the matchbox containing The Unknown Wasp has gone. I turn to check the kitchen and there is someone there. Squealing like a large woman who has just seen david blaine remove his thumb and magically replace it, I fall back onto the carpet. "WHOTHFUCKARREYOUWHATTAREYOUDOINPLEASEDONTHURTME" I screech, bravely. No reply. The figure is not moving. I move cautiously forward until the light gives a better indication of what new terror I'm about to face.

It's me. It is a life size me made entirely of well chewed wood chippings. The statue depicts me holding a rolled up paper in one hand, and in the other, a matchbox. It is stunningly accurate apart from the antennae they have added to my head and the wings on my back. I run to the window. The wasps have gone. I hear birdsong, lawnmowers, and the cold, dead laughter of a child. I fall to my knees and weep sweet chocolatey, figgy tears of joy.