The flies started coming after a few days. 2, milling around scratching their legs, placid, hanging around on the kitchen cupboard. No-one took any notice, after all it was summer and likely the drone of a busy insect following them around the house felt almost nostalgic. Plus it seemed such small inconveniences were trivial in the midst of what they called a 'hit'.
It was day four where the flies presence really became apparent. 5 more of them, much like the first 2, docile, a scuttle here and there but no flight, instead just stagnant, watching. Always watching.
Day ten they took over the cupboards, 31 of them, all heads pointing down. Black pecan bodies immobile, save for a few kicks, each maneuvering, positioning themselves to get the best view of the floor. Leftover Food lay un-spoilt on the sides, dirty dishes overflowing the sink, but not one fly descended on them. Such measly scraps did not command their attention. In greasy food, larvae would not attach themselves, would be dissolved slowly by spices not made for flies. Flesh was best. Slowly decomposing flesh.
No-one had come in the kitchen for a while, the door remaining firmly shut. Despite my cries before the flies, none of the inhabitants visited. Barely even a scream as it was opened halfway, then swiftly locked on day twelve, just a muttering amid rolling half open eyes.
"All good dogs go to heaven........probably".
Slam.
.
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