The Ladybug
I went to the kitchen this evening, so that I could make a bowl of Ramen soup. I hadn’t eaten a thing all day. Once I had put the water on the stove to boil I began to wait – slouching, and crossing my arms, becoming lost in thought. As I stood there, thinking, I caught sight of something unfamiliar on the white counter-top: it was a ladybug, an unfortunate little ladybug, sprawled and stuck, teetering on its back like a red plastic sled dropped by a kid who had just reached the summit of a steep and snowy hill. The ladybug’s legs were thrashing madly about in countless futile attempts to right itself. I stared at it failing as the water remained motionless in the pot. “Come on,” I thought. Surely this ladybug is capable of flipping itself over. Surely all ladybugs must be capable of that. This couldn’t be the plight of all those unfortunate ladybugs that had found themselves staring at the ground like a man suspended upside down from a rope, dangling. “Come on,” I thought.
Bending over the ladybug, I still had my arms crossed, as if to feign interest and avoid embarrassing it; I stared closer. I uncrossed my arms to reach out to the ladybug. I extended my pointer finger, and, as gently as I could, pushed the ladybug upright.
“There you are,” I thought, taking a step away, still watching it from the corner of my eye. I crossed my arms. Steam began to rise from the pot as the water continued to get hotter. “Well… come on,” I thought. Do something, ladybug. That’s what you needed, wasn’t it? Then, from the corner of my eye, I noticed it move: the ladybug had begun to crawl, slowly, to the sink; something was wrong. Leaning over, looking closer, I realized its struggle. One of her legs appeared to be broken or useless: some sort of injury that was slowing her considerably.
“I wonder if she’s dying,” I thought, as the ladybug continued to drag herself towards the sink, reminding me of a soldier wounded in battle, dragging himself and his shield across the ground, retreating, to safety. Maybe there’s something I could do? Across the counter I noticed a paper towel that had been left out. Should I end her misery? All it would take is a simple squish. No doubt that that crunch I would hear would be the end of this unfortunate ladybug. That would be the merciful thing to do.
I stood staring.
Bubbles began to collect on the sides of the pot; steam was rising. The ladybug continued to drag on: she crawled towards the sink steadily and unwavering.
“No,” I decided; this ladybug doesn’t want to be crushed by towering, diamond-pleated, extra-soft, white walls collapsing in on her, squishing her to the end. No one would want that to be their fate. What did the ladybug want though? Why was she struggling to the sink? She must be delirious, chasing a mirage, hoping for some relief in the glass filled basin. “She doesn’t want to end up there,” I thought. She must be delirious; that porcelain crevasse is no place to find your end; this kitchen, barely illuminated by the dull bulb glowing over the sink, with water starting to pop and bounce in the pot, rippling the surface, growing hotter on the stove, was no place for a ladybug’s end. The ladybug seemed to be getting closer.
“I’ll put her outside,” I thought, “that’s what I’ll do.” I leaned in closer to the ladybug: close enough to count the black dots displayed on her red, round, glossy surface. I brought my hand up above her and lowered it slowly, rearing my thumb, index and middle finger like a mechanical claw, clumsily trying to grasp a teddy bear. But the ladybug was too slick and little for me to clasp. I tried again, and even once more, but I couldn’t pick up the ladybug. My fingers were too soft and moist. The bubbles were getting louder behind my back. “I’ll just have to drag you myself,” I thought. I’ll have to drag you over the edge to get you off this white counter-top. And that’s what I did.
Cupping my hands like a swimmer I lowered my fingers down to the surface of the counter. My shadow engulfed the ladybug. Then, like a train, my fingers slowly rammed the ladybug, pulling her towards the edge. She skidded against the pressure; I imagined her clawing the surface of the counter, sending inaudible noises like nails on a chalkboard to barking dogs blocks away, desperate to stop whatever was forcing her away from her path. I brought her to the edge and without pause plopped her into my waiting hand below.
I brought my hand up to my face and stared closely at the ladybug. She didn’t move. “Come on,” I thought. I hope I hadn’t hurt her further. Surely she would start crawling slowly again. But she stayed still. “That’s a shame,” I thought. Turning around I walked away from the sink, and away from the dull light, and away from my water, which was now bubbling with fervor. I headed towards the door leading out onto the patio. “Well at least she’ll be back outside,” I thought, “not in that wet and barren sink.” I opened the door and took a step out, not letting go of the handle. The ladybug was cupped in my free hand and I swung her up and out as to make sure she landed in the grass. But in the fading glow of the evening I caught sight of that unfortunate little ladybug getting caught in the wind: she sprung into life in that gust and fluttered her red glossy wings allowing herself to be carried away into the paleness.
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