The Fly

 

"The Fly" is one of Katherine Mansfield’s darkest and most famous stories. She wrote it while dealing with deep sadness after World War I. The story is about a powerful man known only as "The Boss," who is visited by an old friend.

I’m not here to retell the whole story today, as the entire thing is a masterpiece. However, there is one specific part that really stays with me. I wanted to expand on that moment in my own way, mixing in my own thoughts and feelings.

Here it goes:

The Boss sat still at his desk, his long shadow falling across the wood. A fly drifted in through the window and landed softly on the table. Its wings were like delicate lace, catching the light as it moved.

The Boss dropped a single drop of ink onto the fly.

It hit like a heavy, cold stone. The ink pinned the fly down, sticking its wings to its body. The insect began to fight. Its tiny legs worked frantically against the wood, trying to scrape the thick, black liquid away. It was a massive effort—a tiny life fighting against a giant’s mess. Eventually, the fly’s wings began to shine through the black again. It stood up on shaking legs, getting ready to fly away.

The Boss dropped the second drop of ink.

This time was even harder. The new ink mixed with the old, making the weight twice as heavy. The fly started to struggle again, but its energy was fading. It dragged its body through the sticky mess, its movements slow and painful. Still, it refused to give up. With incredible persistence, it cleared its wings one more time. It reached a dry spot on the wood, looking like a shivering ghost of its former self, and tried to fly.

The Boss dropped the third drop of ink.

It became a slow, sad cycle. Every time the fly was about to escape, the Boss put Ink drop onto the Fly. With every new drop, the fly’s strength leaked away. Its legs slipped in the growing puddle of black. The beautiful glow of its body was buried under layer after layer of ink.

The breaks between its movements grew longer. The Fly is tired and lost its strength to fight. It made one last, painful effort to lift its head, but the weight was simply too much. Its legs gave out, its wings stayed pinned in the dark, and the fly died.

I am tired too.