The mosquito buzzed like a violin searching for a melody. It hovered, tiger-striped, and the woman watched it consider her arm. It landed on insubstantial legs, delicate as a fairy queen. With a blood meal it could lay eggs. The bite would itch, but chances were few it carried a disease like encephalitis or dengue. The mosquito didn’t care. Its eggs mattered more than any human.
She slapped and the mosquito fell, long striped legs crushed and tangled. The woman was pregnant and taking no chances. Yet she knew, with trillions of mosquitos and billions of humans in the world, this single killing accomplished nothing and proved nothing, not even who loved their babies more. She had the brute advantage this time and she took it, that was all.
She eyed the tiny corpse on the ground and grieved. Motherhood made enemies. Mothers would stop at nothing. And she hadn’t yet given birth.