There is an ant.
I watch as it travels across the grassy field under the unbearable rays of the sun. The ant makes it halfway across the field, stops, shrivels up, and dies.
It’s June 27th.
I’m hot, sweaty, and no matter how many times I pull on it, my clothes keeps sticking to my skin. The sun is at its peak and the temperature is scorching.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I try to think about it. But the buzzing of the cicadas get louder. I can’t hear my thoughts.
I want them to stop.
The noise continues. Endlessly. As if there were nothing making the noise, as if the noise were there naturally. It is jarring and sharp and unpleasant. The buzzing reverberates through my skull.
It continues on and on and on.
I try to cover my ears. I press my hands against the side of my head until it hurts and my brain feels numb. And yet I can still hear it. The constant screeching of the cicadas.
It drives me insane.
With the little energy I have left I tilt my head to look at my surroundings. I want to find the cicadas. I want to kill them. I want to squeeze them until they burst, until they make not a single sound, so I can relish the silence.
But when I look, all I see is the dense, empty forest. Not a soul to be seen.
Defeated, I lie back down on the wooden porch, baking in the humid weather, a pool of sweat surrounding me.
I wonder if the cicadas are even there. I wonder if anyone else can hear them. I wonder if there even is anyone else.
I don’t think for very long. The noise only gets louder and louder until it feels as though the shrill was being channeled from inside my head.
At last I’ve had enough.
I stand up and I scream at them to stop. I scream at them over and over until my throat becomes hoarse and my mouth is dry. My mind has gone empty. It’s filled only with the desire of quiet tranquility. I’m at dying in the heat. I’m at my breaking point.
The screeching of the cicadas only gets louder.
I want to scream back harder. To silence the cicadas. But all I can do is lie back down on the wooden porch of this broken down house, listening to the cicadas.
Soon, daylight fades and the moon begins to rise. Nighttime is cooler. My clothes no longer sticks to my skin, my skin no longer sticks to the wooden porch. It’s dead silent. There are no more cicadas. Only the sound of my own breathing fills the air.
Then the moon slowly falls and sun begins to reach its peak again.
The temperature starts to soar.
The screeching of the cicadas returns.
It’s June 27th.