THE LIFE CYCLE OF THE GRISSOM FLY
THE EGG
Grissom sat up, startled by the sound of a gunshot. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, hastening their adjustment to the darkened room. His favorite chair was absent from the corner and the walls were cold and blank. He strained his senses looking and listening for an intruder. A sense of solitude slowed his heart rate. The branch of an elm tree rattled against the room's lone window, breaking the ominous silence.
An image of Ernie Dell flashed in his mind's eye and he lay back on the pillow with an exasperated sigh. It was only a nightmare. He blinked forcefully, ridding himself of the picture of the crusty, work-worn murderer.
Shivering from the violent hallucination and the coolness of the sweat-soaked sheets, Grissom rose from the bed and stumbled toward the bathroom. He clumsily searched the wall for the light switch, finally illuminating the small room with artificial fluorescence. At the familiar site of his toiletry items atop the otherwise unfamiliar vanity, Grissom felt his sleep-induced fog begin to fade.
Peering cautiously into the mirror, Grissom gasped in disbelief. Bloodshot eyes stared back at him, their sunken quality accentuated by the dark circles underneath. The sweaty remnants of his nightmare pooled in the deep lines of his face. A stray drop descended from his forehead, catching in the bristle of his five-o'clock shadow. Shedding his clothes, he stepped into the shower stall, hoping to wash his body into some semblance of normalcy.
Physically ready for the day ahead, Grissom glanced toward the door of the rented suite, imagining a swarm of female blow flies was waiting on the other side, ready to lay their eggs on the raw, wounded flesh of his mind and heart. Rolling his eyes at the ridiculousness of the thought, he donned a coat and grabbed his briefcase.
Gripped by the bitter cold, Grissom raised the collar of his coat and lowered his hat over his ears, thankful he resisted the urge to shave. His young beard insulated his face from the swirling wind. The overcast sky was the perfect punctuation to his dreary mood.
He walked briskly toward his classroom, listening intently to the snow and ice crunch beneath his boots, a peaceful respite from the incessant ringing of the Las Vegas slot machines. Pulling his coat tighter, he tried to quiet the pang of despair vibrating through his body. The absence of Sara was far more chilling than the wintry elements. Though only twenty-four removed from her, his heart hurt as if he had been gone a lifetime.
Finally reaching his destination, he opened the door to reveal a room full of eager pupils welcoming him with their smiles. From the corner of his eye, Grissom noticed the sun escape from the shield of the clouds.
THE LARVA
"Sara." He reached sleepily for the left side of the bed, but found it empty. Opening his eyes, he grumbled at the realization he was still sleeping in borrowed quarters, her delicate arms miles away instead of locked around his waist. She had seemed so real in his dream, standing by her locker, bottom lip quivering despite her resolute expression. He pulled her into an embrace hoping to absorb her pain; his own eased by the intoxicating warmth of her skin.
The sound of the alarm clock broke his reverie. Turning it off, he stared blankly at the ceiling, remembering the reality of their last moment. The war between his mind and heart was won by left-brained cowardice. He swallowed the guilt rising in his chest and escaped from the pile of blankets trapping him in the bed.
Brushing his teeth, Grissom reexamined himself in the mirror. A week of teaching had relaxed the lines in his face and the redness in his eyes seemed to be fading. The pronounced dark circles shadowing his lower eyelids were evidence of continued restlessness, but, overall, the quiet simplicity of life in Williamstown had visibly softened his appearance.
Inwardly, Grissom felt his burnout dissipating. He shoved his migraine medication in a drawer, thankful the constant throb in his head had finally ceased. The healing power of the living was making him dread a return to the dead.
His mind right after a short seven days, Grissom's heart still beat with a dull ache. It was inconsolable, steeped in malaise he knew no amount of teaching could cure. Pulling a heavy wool sweater over his head, his thoughts drifted to Sara. Happiness was within their grasp, a short tightrope walk away. He longed for a means to steady himself against the missteps that had them walking backward instead of forward. Retrieving his phone from the bedside table, he began dialing. He stopped at the last number, understanding the cobwebs needed to clear from both his mind and his heart before he would be ready to talk to her.
Leaving the apartment, Grissom admired the beauty of his surroundings for the first time since his arrival. He took in the fresh air, the cold burn in his lungs feeling unusually refreshing on this day. A complete metamorphosis was on the horizon.
THE PUPA
Grissom stirred from his sleep, awakened by the bright sunlight peaking through the window blinds. Rising from the bed with relative ease, he was surprised by how rested he felt. He slept without interruption from nightmares and dreams, perhaps soothed by his newfound inner peace.
Walking into the bathroom, Grissom exhaled a contented sigh. He washed the gritty remnants of a night in the field from his face. The man starting at him from the bathroom mirror had a healthy glow, only partially covered by the full beard. The unexpected call from the police chief had been a blessing, not a curse.
A night ago, he had provided assistance to the Williamstown Police Department on an apparent murder case. Arriving at the scene, he had approached the victim hesitantly, half-expecting the mere sight of the dead body would conjure up images of Ernie Dell and all the bodies that came before him. Collecting the bug samples with his usual efficiency, he had been pleasantly surprised his stomach was not sickened with revulsion. Instead, it was nervous with the enthusiasm of a man reunited with his calling.
Now sitting at the dining table of the temporary residence, Grissom realized that teaching, while recuperative, was far too mundane for his liking. Listening to his voice echo from the four walls of a classroom was already growing old. He missed the challenge of the unexpected and the rush of adrenaline brought by solving a whodunit. His brief return to the field proved the sabbatical had strengthened his defenses and hardened his exterior.
Looking out the window, he gazed beyond the sun and into the future.
THE ADULT
He dreamed of Sara. Sara smiling. Sara laughing. Sara sleeping. He pulled the blankets over his head, hiding from the daylight and willing himself back to sleep. His brain ignored the intent of his forcibly closed eyes. Grissom leapt from the bed with an agitated groan, disappointed he could not succumb to his dreams.
Standing in front of the mirror, he saw the smile that started in his core and curved at his lips. Love came to him in his dream.
He pictured Sara opening a box that held his heart. It lay cold and still. She reached for it, gently cradling it in the palms of her hands. The electricity of her touch penetrated its militant walls, giving it life. It beat anew.
Feeling joyfully lightheaded, he leaned into the vanity to regain his balance. He could see the future with the acute vision of an adult fly and the future was with Sara.
Grissom absentmindedly opened and shut the plastic housing of his flip phone, fearing the words in his heart would lose themselves somewhere along the path between his mind and his mouth. Whatever confidence he exuded in his walk was lost on the insecure little boy that hid in his soul. He pulled nervously at his wildly grown beard, finally setting the phone down in favor of a pen.
Choosing his own words carefully and borrowing those he couldn't articulate, Grissom wrote a letter to Sara. With each sentence, the door to his subconscious opened wider, giving her access to a place he thought would be guarded for eternity. Writing word after word, he sat taller and taller, truly feeling as though a weight was being lifted from his stoic shoulders. Finished, he studied it carefully, hints of a satisfied smile forming on his lips.
Folding it carefully, Grissom turned his attention to the envelope.
1623 West…..
He stopped suddenly, looking at his watch. It was exactly 16 days and 23 hours until he headed west to return to Las Vegas. Inspired by the prophecy of the moment, he rushed to finish the envelope and then to mail the letter. Walking briskly toward the post office, he listened intently to the crunching of the ice and snow beneath his feet, longing for the noisy bells and whistles of the Vegas slot machines.
There was not a cloud in the sky.