HUSKS

I keep the windows shut to drown out the buzzing. I do not open the curtains. The sun is too hot, and its light hurts my eyes.

Husks. Why do I keep finding them? Under my bed, in the cabinets, on the door hinges.

When summer begins, I find the first one in my hair. It crumbles between strands as I pull it out. Flaky amber pieces are stuck to my scalp. At first, I am confused, but I recognize its little leg, still intact on the tip of my thumb.

I take a shower that morning, to rid myself of its shell and pray to the drain that what was released from that husk has already left. Because I do not do well with others, and I am not strong enough to gain the courage to force it out.

I find another in my cereal. It bounces into the ceramic bowl with a plink. I throw it in the trash, annoyed at my loss of appetite. It is bigger than the one in my hair. I fear there may be more.

They leave their husks in places they know I will encounter them. Their claws have a way of burrowing into whatever they touch. My tablecloth, my pillow, and my clothes, all frayed and damaged from their clutches.

Disgusting. Garbage.

When the trash bag can stretch no more, I try to destroy them. I burn them over the stove’s gas flames, watching as the thin shells turn to black and disintegrate. I flush them down the toilet, but their specks float back up into the bowl. I cast them down the garbage disposal, listening to the grinding rasp. I feed them to the paper shredder as a last resort, but it only creates piles of flaky shards.

They revel in my attempts, because it means they can create more.

I resort to living together with them. When I walk, they simply crumble under my feet. But the husks turn to dust, a prickly kind of dust. The kind that pokes at my soles and makes me jump. It covers the floor and embeds into the carpet.

The sharp pieces stick to my skin. They create scabs and scales. I scratch and scratch and rub myself raw, trying to remove the crust that coats my skin.

Too bad, the husks are piled up in the shower, hidden behind the curtain. The sinks are full too, and the drains are clogged. To combat them is futile.

My skin has grown thick with their shells. The more I itch, the more the fear in my belly grows. I cannot even open my eyes; they are crusted shut.

The cicadas outside buzz as they bounce against the window panes. I try not to think about their heavy bodies bobbing around, or their eyes red with desire. And I do not dare imagine them burrowing inside and molting on my walls.

No, instead I lay back down in my bed, and the husks beneath me crunch and crumble. I pick at my skin where it itches the most, between my fingers and behind my ears.

I do not know how long I have been here. I am stuck. My arms have been wrapped around my legs, and my head is between my knees. Should have left when the trash was full.

The stench of hardened skin scalds my nostrils. At least it is a distraction from the deafening buzzing taunts of millions of cicadas. My crust hardens over my ears, nose, and mouth. It is suffocating in a comforting way, blinding all the senses.

I have been left with myself, protected by my hard shell. Finally, a good night’s sleep.

* * *

My body flares with pain after days of quiet. My knees are begging me to use them, and my neck is stiff—if only I could just change positions.

At a slight movement, there is a tear at the nape of my neck. The hot outside air enters my shell, and I begin to sweat. I wiggle my head. The crust breaks away from my nose, eyes, and ears. My senses come back, and it fills me with panic.

It is dark. My sweat mixes with the casing, creating a sludge that irritates my fresh skin. It’s disgusting in here. Get me out.

The seam at the nape of my neck rips, cracks, and tears down my back. The shell loosens around my limbs, and I crawl out, careful not to crush its amber shape.

My skin is red and wet. My eyes burn from the humid heat. My shell lies still in its fetal position on the cicada husk-covered bed. The largest husk of them all, it lies in dominion over the others. Its acrid odor of rebirth zaps me out of my haze.

I force the front door open a fraction with my entire body. It is buried beneath the dirt, which piles into the doorway. I dig at it with my claws. Its cool and earthy smell is relaxing. I am submerged. It is not as suffocating as my husk.

It is soft and pliant; I glide through it like swimming in a pool.

When I reach the surface, the sunlight stings my eyes, and the heat roasts my skin. The cicadas acknowledge me as I emerge. Their buzzing and burring fill my ears. My shouts blend in.

I hook my claws into the nearest stem, and fluid drips down my aching wings. My back throbs as they tremble and stretch.

The cicadas glare at me with red eyes, and they bob around in their clumsy flight. I shout at them. I try to ask them about the husks, why they ruined my home. They do not know how to answer.

Our voices sound the same.

My wings sag, useless. My body twitches, raw.

So, I wait.

I join them in their song.

Until their husks find me again.

Until I split. Until I emerge once more.