Words by Jessica Kate // illustration by Nele Wagner
I’m sitting at my desk when it happens. A message rears its cheerful, unaffected head in the bottom right hand corner of my screen, reminding me of an upcoming appointment.
And then, it’s there.
It starts slowly, softly. Like the quiet reassurance of a fan on a hot summer’s day, it gently ebbs into my awareness. I am a cat, ears pricked to attention – though not yet disturbed from my slumber.
Although really… would we call it slumber? The metaphor is nice, but dissociative episode might be more accurate.
I’m waiting for the microwave to finish its orbit when it returns. The hum of electric spinning has lulled me into a trance. My eyes, unblinking, stare into space as though they’ve forgotten their purpose: to decode the tangible in real time. Must be another moment of cat-like slumber.
Did I ever reply to that email earlier – the one with the link to click to confirm the other appointment? Did I update the calendar? Glancing at the time left on the microwave’s glowing screen (47 seconds) I pull out my phone and with practised efficiency, open my email.
There!
Pause, head tilted slightly to the left. Eyes glazed and ears straining.
Can you hear it?
It’s in league with the microwave, I think. My meal has betrayed me, using its twirls to disguise the sound of quiet droning, circling the room. Perhaps my phone is in on it too; a true domestic uprising happening under my own nose.
It’s louder if I close my eyes. The world is dark, but sounds are magnified. Then, like the warmup of an orchestra, the constant hum I’m searching for suddenly increases in intensity, harmonising with the microwave before dissipating again.
Can you hear it? Where is it?!
I haven’t looked at my traitorous phone in a while. I’ve succumbed to a rare episode of focus, ticking tasks off of my list so efficiently that the dopamine hits keep coming, spurring me on. I’m reclined in my chair now though – the familiar click of my phone’s screen unlocking echoing around me. God, that’s a lot of notifications.
Payment reminder.
A video shared from my sister: another booktok recommendation.
My mother has messaged about the weekend.
News headline: Things Are Getting Worse.
Calendar alert: my niece’s birthday tomorrow. Wait – did I buy a present?
Honestly, the end of the world could be announced via push notification, and I’d miss it because I’ll be buried beneath text messages and Instagram reels.
Stop. There it is. Listen.
Can’t you hear it? That low, constant note beneath the cars outside and the dog next door. That buzzing, whirring, droning sound. That unsettling tenor that makes the hairs on my neck shiver to attention. Where is it?
My search is interrupted by a more tangible vibration. The device in my hand shivers insistently.
Oh, shit. My stomach drops into a pit. I clench my eyes, grit my teeth and tap answer.
“Hello?”
“Hiya! Saskia calling from Sunny Smiles Early Learning, how are you?”
The pit deepens with every upward inflection of her perky greeting.
“So sorry to bother you,” (No you’re not, I think darkly.) “… but unfortunately, we are going to need you to come and collect-”
The words start to merge. Perkiness and dread blend into a weird, bubbly mess inside my head.
“Bit out of sorts… not eating… checked after lunch… 38.6°C… lethargic…”
I nod on autopilot, then remember they can’t see me.
“Of course. I’m leaving now.”
As I start collecting my things, the buzzing comes back. It’s much louder now. Can’t you hear it? It’s in the room, I’m sure. I glance around, eyes jumping from corner to corner.
It’s the third time this month. Will the doctor have any free appointments? I might have to go to the other clinic – maybe I can call them on my way. Mental checklist: nappies, snacks. What percentage is my phone battery on? I don’t think I have any personal leave left. Is my head screwed on, or have I lost that too, somewhere between my marbles and the plot?!
I stride out of the room, and I swear the buzzing follows.
Later that night, once the magic of paracetamol has kicked in and the house is somewhat still, I’m reaching for a tea bag in the pantry when it happens again.
The buzzing returns – circling my head, white spots pulsing behind my eyelids.
I’ve forgotten the breakfast cereal. There isn’t enough for the morning. I’m desperately scrolling to find the supermarket app – racing against the evening cut off for a one-hour delivery. I’d better get some fruit juice too, the feeble coughing from the bedroom I just left reminds me.
There’s no noise that cuts through the buzzing faster than that one.
Shit. I still need to email work and submit that leave form. Where did I put the medical certificate? There it is, on the bench next to the postcard from my sister. Wait – my niece! Did I order her present? God, her birthday is tomorrow. Will they do same day delivery?
The buzzing shoots past my ear and I whirl, swatting wildly. My eyes dart everywhere breathing shallow, hand shaking as my fingers fumble, trying to add Weetbix to my cart. The rest of me is on high alert, scanning and straining to hear the tinny, whining noise that’s haunting me.
Can you hear it? Can you see it?
For fuck’s sake. I refuse to be gaslit by a metaphorical insect.
Where is that fucking fly?!
