Memoirs of a Meal

It's 4AM in Seoul, and the hunt nears its end. For many nights now I've been a blood meal for hungry mosquito. How do they enter this simple room? Through the drains? Via the air con system? The doors and windows are tightly closed, but each few hours more arrive, replacing their dead cousins whose carcasses dot the floor & smear the walls. As I write these words, two bloodsuckers die on approach. The waves of attack become bolder, welts from past bites itch & swell, the tracking of evasive flight patterns seems tougher. This is a zombie attack, beyond complex reasoning. If I stayed longer, I'd screen the drains, seal door & windows, cut-off access. But I'm a brief visitor, a huge attractant for these few grams seeking my blood. Such a welcome! A single discomforted meal in a buzzing metropolis, I gladly depart in a few hours for home & family, escaping thirst & vengeance.

(Until then, I protect my remains. The last mosquito spotted evaded extinction & hides behind a heavy desk, quite noisy to move.)

(-- PS, she's now a goner; too sodden with blood to escape a hunt).