No matter what anyone says about their so-called purpose in the ecosystem, Lara would never believe that life on this Earth wouldn’t be far better for most living things (humans included, of course) if mosquitoes didn’t exist. She didn’t want to hear it about how “important” they were in the food chain—or sorry, food web. Because, surely, nighthawks, newts, hummingbirds, bats, dragonflies and aquatic turtles could find other things to feast on. Really now. Lara found it difficult to believe that, despite the protestations of various wildlife enthusiasts and scientists, the world couldn’t function just fucking fine without mosquitoes. Then again, the same could be said about the world and humans. With the former likely being far better off without them and, if it could speak in words, would probably say that it would prefer to keep the mosquitoes and get rid of the humans.

The mosquitoes, on the other hand, would be far less pleased at the absence of this species. For, as Lara’s ridden-with-bites body could nonverbally vouch, human blood was clearly their favorite “meal.” And one they most especially feasted on in the hot summer months, which were only getting hotter every year. All the more ideal for mosquito abundance. For them to thrive in the conditions that hot and humid weather provides. Of course, Lara had also been told (by the apparently rampant amount of mosquito defenders that seemed to come out of the woodwork every time she complained of them) that there are thousands of different mosquito breeds in the world, and that only a small percentage is responsible for “hunting” humans. Not only that, but as it is also frequently mentioned (because, whenever possible, people like to bring misogyny into the mix), it’s only female mosquitoes that feast on human blood. So blame those bitches, not the entire mosquito population at large.

Besides that, aren’t these blood-guzzling mosquitoes just doing what any human would? That is, whatever they have to in order to ensure their “family” survives. More specifically, doing whatever they have to in order to ensure that the eggs they produce are “viable.” And blood—evidently, human blood—is essential to that viability. To making certain that a new generation of mosquitoes can also go forth and annoy the shit out of humans (both the same generation of them and subsequent ones). As if anyone wants that. Lara had a good mind to wear a suit of armor in protest. But then, they’d probably still find a way to infiltrate it. There was always some crack or other unseen egress that a mosquito could access. There was no stopping them. They were more determined and ambitious in their aims than Madonna upon arriving in New York City in the late 70s. And it seemed that, no matter what Lara did, there was no staving them off.

Even when she employed every defense, every tactical measure to make sure they would leave her goddamn body alone, they still showed up to the “party” (her flesh). This meant all the DEET she was riddling herself with, all the plug-ins—filled with allethrins—she was breathing in, well, they seemed to be for nothing. Because every morning, she woke up with a new rash of carbuncles, as it were. And they were all so big and red that it did look like a rash. These massive bumps that had a two- and even four-inch length of redness from the “focal point.” Or perhaps “incision point” was the better phrase. For that’s what mosquitoes did: literally sunk their proboscis into the depths of the skin to take what they “needed.”

Indeed, the more Lara thought about it (which she did quite a lot in the summer), there was something so rapey, so goddamn violatory about what mosquitoes do. They took something of yours—something literally inside of you—against your will, and “tough titty” if it harmed you afterward. They had gotten what they wanted (or “needed,” if you must), and that was all that mattered. They didn’t give a fuck about what happened to their “host” in the wake of their “bloodmeal” (just one of many disgusting terms surrounding the vocabulary related to mosquitoes). And what happened to Lara, she realized, was something called “skeeter syndrome” (again, more with the disgusting-sounding language that was unavoidable when referencing mosquitoes).

Oh, how she wished that meant something like “being addicted to listening to Skeeter Davis’ ‘The End of the World’ on repeat.” But no, what it meant was that some people, like herself, had a more severe reaction to the “average” mosquito bite. In her case, that meant extreme inflammation and more noticeable itching and pain/discomfort. All because some bitch mosquito needed to not only suck her blood, but spit her saliva into the bloodstream to prevent the blood from clotting as it was funneled through the proboscis. Because their saliva not only contained the allergenic polypeptides that caused skeeter syndrome in someone like Lara, but also anticoagulants to keep the “stream” steady, smooth—because heaven forbid one of these mosquitoes ought to choke on a blood clot as karma for taking what didn’t belong to them (which, yes, is also something that humans have historically done all the time).

Lara wanted to vomit after learning all of this information. Staring at how vast an area the redness was spanning on her legs and arms. Or rather, she tried, as best as she could, to stare, what with one of her eyes swollen shut thanks to a bite on her eyelid. That was a pleasant surprise to wake up to. Or rather, barely wake up to, since she couldn’t get both eyes open. She feared further investigating why a mosquito might be attracted to that part of the body, assuming it would once again offer only a gross, shudder-inducing answer.

Instead, she told herself there was no “particular” reason for it. A mosquito could strike anywhere, depending on its arbitrary fancy. After all, to them, there were no distinguishable “parts” of a human body—it was all just one cauldron of blood to them. This being part and parcel of why they were selfish assholes: they quite literally had no discernment or consideration about at least striking a part of the body that wouldn’t make a person feel so affected by the violation.

As Lara was when she did her best to go about the business of living through an already irritating summer day (for all summer days had become irritating when the average temperature was now a hundred degrees). The only solace she had were her sunglasses. Otherwise, she knew that many—despite their own personal problems and self-obsession—would probably stop to gawk at her strange condition. The one they probably couldn’t immediately pinpoint as “skeeter syndrome.”