The Night Fay Forgot Bug Spray

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The Night Fay Forgot Bug Spray by Livvy Krakower - Photo by Marika Campbell-Blue

Fay’s eyes follow the mosquito as it dances around and through the campfire. It dangles in front of Jacob’s lips before it comes to her, sensing her blood is sweeter. It circles around, landing briefly on her arm, her neck, her fingertips, none of which possess what it is craving. Fay tries to keep watch of the mosquito, but Jacob begins moving closer, blocking her peripheral vision.

“Fay—” his voice drops toward her; she looks down at her thigh, expecting to see the mosquito, but is greeted instead by Jacob’s hand, his dirty fingernails brushing up and down against her skin.

“Yes?” She instantly regrets their eye contact.

“Do you know how beautiful you are?”

She does, but that is not what boys want to hear.

“I’m not… my nose is too big,” she says.

Jacob smiles to himself, pleased. His fingers glide up to her face brushing against the nose that he was given the power to deem acceptable.

“I think you are stunning even with your nose.”

Fay can feel her body go cold, her skin growing paler to reveal scared red veins. His lips moving closer to hers and the scent of Carmex lip balm fills her nose as if Jacob prepared for this moment that he knew was destined to come.

“Is this your first kiss?”

“Yes.”

Another lie that Jacob eats up right away. They are a centimeter apart, and he jolts toward her. Fay can feel his ego pulsing through his lips, his movements mimicking what he sees online, yet she can still hear the mosquito humming around her, jealous that he is stealing all her blood. The mosquito trails down her body along with Jacob’s hands and attacks with him.

The next morning when the stinging wakes Fay up, her lips are the only thing that itch.

This piece was originally published in The Writers Circle Journal Issue 10
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