runmonsterun:

There’s a mutated gene in fruit flies that makes them die two days after they’re born. They call it Kenny.

Ever since I was little, the concept of “death” being associated with “loss” was lost on me. As if I had been born with this feeling, Death was as natural to me as breathing.

The bowl of rotten fruit beside me is infested with those fruit flies, but I can’t bear to throw them away. My mom sets out traps of soap and vinegar hoping the numbers will dwindle, but I know they’ll just keep multiplying. 

Sometimes I think maybe I have that same gene. I’m like Spiderman, bonded by a bite, but my power won’t save anyone. It only makes me all the more disposable.

Somehow when I see them crawling so helplessly around on against the decrepit  surface of molding fruit, I can’t help but hope they live just another day longer.