The Habitat

    John had run out of bug spray. He had run out of the pads, out of vinegar, out of everything to keep the little bastards at bay. Now, he was crouched down by the ants endless line and squashing them under his thumb, one by one.

   "Damned ants," he muttered each squish. "Ruining my perfect new home!"

    The light from the windows grew more dim. He faintly heard the dirt shift under the foundation, as though even it was tired of the swarming army.

    "Those are custom made windows, you sons of bitches!" He lamented.

    His beautiful home. The home that had impressed even his family, covered in endlessly marching ants.

    But he would have the last laugh. He swore it.

    John rolled to his side an on to his feet, uncaring of the ants crawling over him. He had laid a crowbar to the side -- it was meant to help him pry off the old wooden eyesores in the walls. Instead, he found himself aiming for the pipes under the sink.

    "Like mother always said. You keep washing until there's no more mess."

    He swung the pipe with a manic grunt, and beat at it until water began to spurt upwards. He knocked holes in every wall and beat at every single pipe that had painstakingly been marked, each with a battle cry of, "Drown!"

    The water took its time, but it didn't take too long before it had near turned black with struggling dots. John sank against a wall with a tired smile. The bliss of feeling the bites fade as he was cleansed was absolutely euphoric.

   He'd let it flood. He could buy new furniture, start over on his dream home. His family would come back and be even more impressed. Maybe he'd put in that god forsaken gaming room for his two snot-nosed little shits. He had the best job in the whole family -- bunch of deadbeats, druggies and whores. Who was going to turn their nose up at him now?

    No one, that's fucking who.

    John shut his eyes and let the water rise. Done. Over. Finally.

    When he could be bothered to open them again, he thought perhaps he hadn't opened them at all. The light had gone completely.

    "I'm just too tired to open my eyes," he assured and forced them open with his fingers.

    Darkness.

    He looked instinctively towards his beautiful, custom arched windows. Brown? How could they be brown?

    Then he realized that the water wasn't the only noise. The very foundation of the home had been dragged down and loose dirt crinkled all around him in surround sound. The real deal, not that cheap shit the guy at the store had tried to sell him.

    John stumbled to his feet and waded in a frenzy to the kitchen to grab his flashlight. He turned it on with a muffled sob.

    His beautiful home had been buried. What once had been a million dollar view out on the bay had becoming nothing but dirt and buried dog shit.

    For a long moment, all he could do was watch the ants crawling in the thousands on his windows. They would get in soon. He looked to his food: covered in ants. His clothes, covered. Everything was nothing but a squirming black horde.

    His mind went back to his mother's ant farm. How he used to stare as they moved around like the undead, following the call of a matriarchal tyrant. He wondered if ant queens ever told her ants that they didn't collect the right sugar, or sent them off to their deaths for amusement.

    They were beginning to swim on him. The stubborn bastards used their own comrades bodies as little boats.

    Smart fuckers.

    His flashlight, filled with water, gracefully took its death.

    The water was still rising.