The murder of an ant

Franscesca killed an ant. The ant was on table at a cafe where Francesca was having coffee and reading a random paper. The real estate section was filled with overpriced houses and the advertisements were pushing condos with an escalating insanity. Franscesca could not afford any of those. The ant had an outer shell that made killing it more difficult than regular ants. Its head kind of swiveled before it was decapitated. The brutality with which the ant was killed bothered Francesca. She suddenly found herself questioning her motive. Why did she kill that ant? Was she pegged by the rising prices of life? Did she feel the need to assert her existence by killing another being? It was none of those.
Francesca was freaked out and her first panicked reaction was to kill the ant. It was all a matter of survival. It was either Francesca or the ant.
The sense of guilt stayed for a little while, but just as she finished her coffee, she brushed it away. She brushed it away just like she brushed away that sticky strand of hair that fluttered before her eyes. She went about her day. She did laundry. She received texts, frivolous texts from friends. Then it began. First a cancellation and then nothingness. Francesca's mood quickly changed as her day fluttered from an orderly affair to a slightly more chaotic affair. It was not earth-shattering, but it was simply annoying.
The dull tempo of the day filled her with a blunt sense of sadness that embed and flowed within her. The humidity all around her echoed the hollowness she felt. She reminisced. Yesterday, she was in a good mood. It didn't last. Good moods never last.
Everyone says that age sneaks up on you. Francesca found life excruciatingly boring. She felt every passing year. She agonized over every thought. She felt like she was at sea, not a specifically tumultuous one, but one that was so vast there was no end or beginning to it. It was a journey of unimportant nothingness. The light from the beacon was so dim that at times, she couldn't even see it, and yet she continued on her vacuous journey. She kept wishing it would end, but it never did. It never does.  
Francesca blamed herself, as she always did. She never complained like others did. She knew that it was no one's fault but her own. And it wasn't even her fault. Or maybe it was. When she killed that ant, a sense of dread filled her. She was certain that it was that one act of cruelty that ushered her descent into the hollowness of her existence. She was certain, but she knew it was not true.


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