Anonymous
Date unknown- I was given this pencil and a few sheets of paper. These materials had a single purpose, to document my experiences and thoughts. The only interaction I had with my tormentor was when I was given these simple instructions. There are no words I could write that would describe my sheer terror. Screaming until I could taste blood had accomplished little, but I find this ludicrous act cathartic. The urge to shred the paper and break the pencil into pieces is tempting. Being that I am unaware of my captor’s intentions, I am fearful of the repercussions of my refusal to abide. Even though I have yet to experience any physical abuse, all except the few bumps and bruises I sustained during my seizure, I am suffering through a different type of torture. The looming unknown shakes me to the core.
I have been here less than a full day, and the total isolation is consuming me. I sit here in my prison, ignorant of my crime. Trying to comprehend my current situation is overwhelming. I don’t know if my imprisonment is temporary, if I am awaiting further punishment, or if I’ve been abandoned, left to suffer the fate of starvation. They have taken me against my will. The local authorities are not responsible for my imprisonment. It was someone else who has taken me. I am a victim of cruel insanity. My normal life was stolen away from me, and then I was thrown into this cell. All that I have are my swirling fears and this god-damned pencil and paper. So, here I am.
After they thrust me into my prison, I removed the black bag from my head. Not a single word was spoken. The cell door was shut, bolted, and locked, and I sat alone for countless hours. When the door finally opened, they brought the writing materials. They gave me simple instructions for documentation. There were limits put upon me. The following information was subject to redaction: any mention or description of my captor, details about me or my “former” life, or the date and time. “Only the present, nothing of the past,” is what -- instructed. Unwarranted submission is not in my nature. My name is -------- ------ and I have been ----- by ---------- -------. My written account could be used as evidence if they catch this villain. These pages may act as my liberator.
It is a ridiculous notion.
There is little hope.
This prison is cramped and dismal. I walked toe to heel and guessed the dimensions are 6 by 8. The walls are composed of simple concrete slabs, which explains the goosebumps on my arms. The tiled floor chills my bare feet. My bed is a simple wretched cot uninvitingly sitting in the room's corner. The rest of this cell is empty, except for the piss bucket occupying the opposite end. The two slits that are set high near the ceiling act as my windows. I am a little grateful that the ceiling is tall. Space is not a commodity in my cell. I am appreciative that this one feature is not adding to the confined conditions. The only downfall of the height of the ceiling is that the windows rest high in the corners near the top of the ceiling. Even if I stood on my cot, it would be difficult for me to peer out of those slits. I cannot feel the sun’s warmth. I cannot gaze upon the night sky. A cool breeze is but a tease. There is no screen or mesh covering those slits. I will experience the mosquitos and vermin that summer can bring and suffer through the harshness of winter. The only benefit to those useless windows is that they produce air circulation, albeit a weak one. I also can count the days by the light elicited by the sunrise. So far, I have counted one sunrise.
I would guess I’ve been in this prison for 16 to 19 hours. With the exception of my brief encounter with my tormentor, I have been in complete isolation. When I was tired from screaming, I fell to the floor and sobbed. If this were under normal circumstances, I would have found the floor dirty and disgusting, but as my cheek lay against the cold floor, I found it comforting. I heaved a deep breath, trying to steady myself. There was no sensation of time, and I fear I had lost lapses, due to fatigue, shock, or mental anguish. At first, the silence felt pacifying. I was away from ---. But soon it was overwhelming. It felt like I was in the clutches of a giant snake, being eaten alive, one agonizing gulp at a time. My stay here was only a short time so far. If I was falling into the chasm of despair already, how could I survive much longer? I couldn’t fathom being here for days, much less years. If the snake would finish me, and swallow me whole, then I would be forever gone. My descent into madness would satiate that hungry beast.
I felt woozy and my eyes carried weight. It was a possibility that they drugged me. I never once felt a prick of a needle, but some poison could have been slipped into my food or drink before my capture. I sat up and pushed my legs until I inched to the wall. My head banged with a pang, and as my eyes began to tear, I welcomed the pain. With pain brought alertness. What I needed most were my wits. Sinking into submission was not an option. I needed to use my frightfulness as motivation. I needed to figure things out. What was my captor’s motive? How could I put myself in the best position for survival? What should I say to --- when -- came back into the cell? These were all necessary questions, but my head was in such a fog, that I couldn’t complete a single thought, let alone a plan.
So, I tried to focus. I gave myself a task. My surroundings would be my distraction. Scouring every inch of my cell, observing every last detail, would help sharpen my mind and may help every grueling hour seem less than a day. I began with the cot. It was composed of a shallow mattress, which appeared thinner than a full blanket. It sat on a hard piece of wood supported by four frail legs. The mattress was coverless and had a large stain that covered the whole bottom portion, which I only could assume was urine. A brief pat would produce a plume of dust, which was thick on that thin piece of material. Next, I turned my attention to the bucket. Even though it wasn’t spotless, it wasn’t caked in filth. There were spots with rust, and it was dented. The cause of the indentations was clear, and I practiced the same exercise. I hurled the bucket across the room, and it bounced off the concrete wall and rolled in the corner with a clang and a clamor. The brief echo stung my ears but was welcoming. This act of senseless destruction felt empowering for the moment. I didn’t let this distraction turn my focus away from my task. The haze that clouded my thoughts needed to lift if I were to survive.
My wafting hand was more vital than a clenched fist. I needed to sharpen my mind. Falling on all fours, I scoured the white tiled floor, looking for every detail, every crack. I spent hours devouring each inch. The floor may have been mopped, but it wasn’t clean as the grime in the grout could testify. The floor sloped into the center of the room, which converged to the metal drain. There was a spigot jutting out of the East wall, and I can only imagine the reasons for a hose to be attached. What has washed down that drain? Bodily fluids? Definitely. Sweat, blood? I imagine, yes. I crawled over, and gripped the metal with my fingertips. Feeling the sting, I could sense the ripping flesh.
And then it happened again.
Time got past me.
There was spittle on my chin as I lifted my head off the ground. As my eyes regained their focus, I saw a divot on the far wall. I crawled over, and the blemish on the concrete slab came into view. Yes, there were scratch marks and thin streaks of red, but there was a small object embedded in the wall. It took little effort to pluck it out. I rolled it in the palm of my hand. What I saw was a human nail. It dropped to the ground as I shrieked.
From the Diary of John Doyle
May 23rd - We are travel wearied, but we have arrived. During the trip, Thomas confessed that he lied about his opinion about the letter from Jessica Hilbury. I accepted his apologies and assured him I had no hard feelings. I know Thomas meant well. In his mind, he prioritized me over Charlie, which is a natural inclination as he has never met the dear Doctor, and I am Thomas’ closest companion. He worried about what the truth may do to me. Even though I conceded to his logic, the lie hurt more than I let on. I take our craft seriously, and Thomas is my partner for so many reasons. One trait that I admire in him is his trustworthiness, but now I wonder if I can take him at his word. Even though there is not a malicious bone in his body and the cause for his betrayed words was to preserve my well-being, I still have to know that Thomas’ opinions are real and not sheltered.
I am glad that he recognized his error in judgment and admitted his lie. I hate to think what a rage I would descend into if I had discovered his deceit by my own means. But then again, who am I? Am I not a hypocrite to feel this way? I too keep a secret. I betrayed Thomas. Such things cannot be measured, but my lie is worse. Even though I vowed never to do so again, I continue to involve his niece Scarlett in our affairs. Much like Thomas’ betrayal, there is no malice involved. There is one major difference—Thomas confessed. Guilt invaded his consciousness with an accurate strike, and Thomas acted with decisive actions to rid himself of this vice. I still hold my lie close to my chest and have no right to have any ill feelings toward Thomas, and despite that, I feel the sting of his deceit. I put a bandage on my wound, and I know it will quickly heal. As I look at my friend, I wonder if he will heal as swiftly when he notices the injury that I have burrowed deep within his chest.
My focus must remain on the matter at hand. As we were sitting around the table, discussing the details of the events that led to my friend, Dr. Charles Thorton’s disappearance, I had let my mind slip. It was a horrendous journey to Connecticut, and it would suit me to forget the details of our voyage. A stressed mind often strays. The relationship between Thomas and I is one of the most important treasures in my life, but Charlie might be in danger, so my attention must attend to him.
Jessica Hilbury lived in a typical New England colonial house. The rooms were small but aplenty. She did not live in the plush residence that I had imagined, but her home was warm, cozy, and equipped with all the amenities that two travelers could hope to ask for. As we sat around the dining room table, the dimly lit room felt comfortable, although the flickering of the candles made my eyes feel heavy. My chin hit my chest, and then with a reflex, my neck snapped up into wakefulness.
Jessica was crying. “He’s dead, I know it.”
Thomas let his hand stray from his cup of coffee and lent it to Jessica.
She took the comforting hand. “Both my parents had died at a young age, and my George was taken by Typhoid. I am not meant to have any loved ones. I am to live this life in lonely solitude.”
“What little evidence we have suggests that Charlie is missing, possibly by foul play, but there is nothing to suggest such a grim outcome,” I interjected. I spoke out of the need to be involved in the conversation rather than to add a welcomed point.
Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Right before George took ill, I found out that I was pregnant with our first child. When he became sick, his symptoms progressed so rapidly and violently that I only focused on his care. It wasn’t a suitable moment to tell him. I was hopeful about his recovery and wanted to divulge the great news once he was able to have a healthy breath and a lucid mind. That day never came. Three weeks after George died, I miscarried.” Jessica collapsed on the table, her head buried in her folded arms. Thomas kept hold of her hand and squeezed.
“John and I will not rest until we find Charlie. We will not set foot outside of Ashford unless our investigation leads us away. We will not see home until we conclude.”
I was exhausted and grew annoyed. This conversation was useless. We were gathering no new information. I was concerned with myself because this was not my normal mindset. I was the one with the sympathetic ear. Thomas would normally become irritated listening to someone else’s anguish. It was I who was trapped in a foul mood, while Thomas wore eyes filled with compassion. Even though her sorrow wouldn’t help us locate her brother, we still could learn from her experience. It was Thomas who comforted Jessica, and I was the selfish bastard. I wasn’t being rude, but I felt ashamed to have these feelings even if they were due to a lack of sleep. Gravity tugged me downwards, and I had to rest my cheek upon my palm. I tried to fight my eyes. I tried to remain focused on their words, but I fell victim to the flickering light. If I would have stayed, I fear I would have fallen asleep right at the table. I knew my limits, but I was disappointed with myself. In the week preceding this day, I spent many sleepless nights anxious with anticipation. I couldn’t help but dissect the letters from Charlie and Jessica, but now that the moment has arrived, I find myself the victim of the swirl of exhaustion. With a bowed and ashamed head, I excused myself and found my way to the spare bedroom.
From the Diary of Jessica Hilbury
May 23rd- When I sent my letter to Mr. Doyle, I must admit I did not think I would receive a reply. It was a prayer thrown into the wind. Mr. Doyle’s associate replied they were coming right away to help, but I was still skeptical. It wasn’t until I heard the knock at the front door that reality sunk in. When I swung the door open, the sight of these two travelers wasn’t a shock to my eyes, but I still was taken a little aback. They looked like they had traveled across the country rather than just up the coast. There was a whirl of emotions rising to the surface, and I didn’t know how to control them. I tried to focus on my guests. Knowing Mr. Doyle from his reputation and how my brother spoke about him, his appearance surprised me. I thought Mr. Braham was Mr. Doyle at first. Mr. Doyle was described as this charismatic, brave genius whose charms won over many ladies’ hearts. I wouldn’t expect the disheveled and plump fellow that stood before me. I knew these thoughts were mean-spirited, but it was a distraction from the eruption that was brewing from within. My opinion was harsh. Mr. Doyle had traveled a great distance, and Mr. Braham informed me later that he didn’t have more than a couple of hours of sleep during the journey over. Still, he didn’t seem like the hero that his reputation had carried.
The reality is often never as incredible as the fantasy. Mr. Braham was a pleasant sight. He was tall with broad shoulders. Even though his train and carriage rides were problematic, he was exquisitely dressed in a pressed double-breasted gray suit. Mr. Braham had a long face with a sturdy chin. His nose wasn’t altogether thin, but it wasn’t as round as Mr. Doyle’s. I could get lost in his studious brown eyes. Mr. Braham’s voice was soft, but not without its confidence. He carried a regal dignity. In the spirit of viciousness, I would say Mr. Doyle had the aura of a slovenly slug. I hated myself for these thoughts, but it was all I could do to hold myself together.
They apologized for their weariness. I understood their journey to Ashford was dreadful, as Braham filled me in later at night. I showed them the guest room and then led them to the dining room where we could become better acquainted. Mr. Doyle asked me to tell them about the events that led up to my brother’s disappearance and then the meeting with Mrs. Bethel. I began recounting the events, much as I have described in my letter. They listened intently. I should reiterate that Mr. Braham paid close attention while Mr. Doyle tried to fight off the spell of sleep. I was fairly confident that I didn’t bore him from my tale, but he was exhausted. As I delved into my story, the spool of my sane mind unspun. I broke down and uttered, “He’s dead, I know it.”
My erratic behavior was irritating Mr. Doyle, but he offered some encouraging words. I am too ashamed to lay down on paper the forthcoming exhibition of self-loathing that I so foolishly displayed. Mr. Braham was so lovely to offer his kind hand, in which I clung to as if I were being torn away from a raging river. Mr. Doyle abruptly excused himself as he succumbed to the call of sleep. I fear it was my theatrics that pushed him over the cliff. After Mr. Doyle had left, Mr. Braham stayed with me and made sure I was in good spirits before I retired for the night.
Mr. Braham let go of my hand and recoiled, then recovered from the awkward moment. “You must excuse him. We had a dreadful trip over. The train was overbooked, and our first-class tickets were oversold. We were lucky to even board as we suffered through the cramped conditions of the carriage. I was well rested as I had a nice nap before our departure. I fear that my friend has not slept well the preceding nights, and I know for a fact he has not gotten a wink since we left. We arrived at Hartford just after twilight. They informed us that our bags were lost and searched for hours until we found them. The inn where Mr. Doyle had planned for our lodging had had a small fire and was closed for the evening. Mr. Doyle and I found another inn, but their lodgings were booked solid. We could dine but then were forced to leave when the kitchen closed. We walked on foot trying to find lodging for the night but were unsuccessful. We went to the coach to wait until they opened in the morning. I found a wooden bench and stole a few uncomfortable hours of broken sleep. Mr. Doyle did not even try, but just sat on the ground next to me.”
This would explain Mr. Doyle’s strange demeanor. It impressed me that Mr. Braham kept himself so well put together after experiencing such hardships.
“It is a shame that Mr. Doyle couldn’t converse further with us about planning for tomorrow, but I can understand his early exit.”
“Yes, but no worries. Mr. Doyle and I have discussed our next move on our trip over, which I will share with you.”
I could feel the storm clouds scattering as my tears dried. I noticed his empty cup, “More coffee?”
“Yes, please.” I filled his mug and then he continued after a fresh sip. “Where was I? Ah, the plan. It is quite simple. Mr. Doyle and I will interview Mrs. Bethel tomorrow.”
“Should I come with you?” I offered.
“I don’t think it would be wise or necessary.”
“What if she doesn’t receive you?”
He took another long sip and then twirled his cup. I noticed that after he had to comfort me, he rarely made eye contact, but just looked at his drink. Mr. Braham answered, “It’s quite probable she will refuse us, but we can gain insight from such provocation. You can learn a wealth of information from a person by how they react to an unforeseen event or visit. I hope she talks to us, but I will not be dismayed if she doesn’t. Nothing would be lost.”
I asked the next necessary question. “Aside from gathering an opinion from your brief altercation, what would be the next step if she refuses you?”
Mr. Braham looked up and then back to the coffee. “Then we will move to more scandalous means.”
My curiosity got the better of me. “What do you mean by that?”
He twirled his cup. “I love coffee, but for me, it does not act as a stimulant.”
He did not have to spell it out for me as he evaded my question. I inquired. “It is getting late. It might be a good idea to continue this conversation tomorrow.”
He agreed, “Yes, that would be wise. Even though I am not as sleep deprived as my friend, I didn’t have a restful day. It’d be sensible to get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow might be an eventful day. If you will excuse me.” He rose to his feet and then added, “Goodnight.”
I remained seated, as I was better but not recovered from my emotional outburst from before. “I thank you for your kindness, and please excuse my tantrum from earlier. I’m so embarrassed.”
He nodded as he showed himself to the guest room.
From the Diary of Thomas Braham
May 23rd- I am most annoyed with John. Even though it has just begun, I know that this case has taken a toll on him. In most circumstances, he would have become a recluse, but the potential danger that his friend finds himself in shook him from his natural inclination. John has battled with insomnia and I am sure he is exhausted, even so, he abandoned me at the most precarious moment. I rarely attend to the emotional needs of others. Not that I am an uncaring person, but I feel uncomfortable in these situations.
When we first arrived, John was mentally absent, and then when Ms. Hilbury had her outburst, I was thrust into the sympathetic position. Then, when I felt like the situation was calming down, John abandoned me. By the will of God, Jessica snapped out of her passionate tirade. Her unstable mentality turned inquisitive as she started asking questions. I was direct without offering much information. Not that there was anything to guard, as John and I keep our process private. This wasn’t a joint venture with Jessica. It was our motive to ask questions and gather information. Because of her mood, I knew we would learn nothing new from her tonight.
She was an odd person, this Jessica Hilbury. At one moment she was a wreck, and the next, intellectually curious. I am not an intuitive observer like my friend, but I have yet to figure out the opposite gender. Their moods and minds are a mystery. Even though I was relieved that I was no longer the caretaker, I still did not enjoy having a solitary conversation with Jessica. I felt awkward and uneasy. John should have braved his own tired mind and helped me through my difficult moment. I cut the conversation short. John has always said an excuse is believable if it is embedded with the truth. I was tired. It was believable and honest, so I used it as my exit. I am sure that tomorrow will bring more light to the disappearance of Dr. Thorton. We are far from the answer, but it will be gratifying to take a step forward. I will put this turbulent day behind me and look forward to a restful sleep.
From the Diary of Scarlett Hanlon
May 22nd- I am sure it isn’t guilt that I am feeling, but I have a sensation of unease in the pit of my stomach. I met Jack McDowell through a mutual acquaintance. My laboratory partner in my anatomy class is Clara Johnson. Her boyfriend’s best friend is Jack McDowell. Either after class or a study session, Clara would always invite me to go out with her group of friends. I always declined. On a few occasions, her friends came to the library in order to convince her to ditch her studies, and they would try their best with me as well. I was never influenced by their inappropriate behavior, but Clara almost always succumbed to their pressure. Jack was there on a few instances. Clara had mentioned several times he had eyes for me. I never paid it much mind. I thought of Jack in the same way as I did a buzzing fly, annoying but insignificant. Jack and I weren’t well acquainted, and I had no interest in learning more about him. The little information I knew about Jack was that he was a student at Temple University and was raised in Lebanon, Connecticut. The latter information interests me at this moment. I know that Temple’s break begins a week earlier than Chestnut Hill’s and that Jack will go back home for the summer.
I asked Clara to bring him to the library today. When he arrived, he was wide-eyed. I am sure that my request to see him caught him off-guard.
Breaking the awkwardness, I started, “I have little time to talk, finals, you know?” I gestured to my table full of piled books.
“You look busy,” was all he could muster.
I stared at him straight in the eyes. He held the look, but it appeared he was fighting a magnetic force that was pulling his gaze away. I tried to smile. “Can you do me a favor when you get back home? Can you send me a couple of newspapers from Lebanon and the surrounding towns?”
“Sure!” He was happy that I gave him a task. He seemed embarrassed by his excitement as though I couldn’t see through his veiled shield as soon as we met. He then toned it down. “Sure. Why do you need all these newspapers? It can’t be for class. The semester is almost over.”
“You and I can have a long conversation about it when you come back next semester.”
“Ok,” he agreed.
Clara interjected, “We should get going Jack. Scarlett needs to get back to her studies.”
We said our goodbyes and off he went. I felt nauseated. I didn’t need Jack in my life more than he already was, but it was crucial that I follow my hunch.
From the Diary of Jack McDowell
May 22nd- I am a cliché of a cliché. It is spring, and I am in love! When Scarlett asked to see me, I must admit that I was apprehensive. The first time I laid eyes on her, I thought she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I hid in my shell whenever I was in her presence. I guess I was intimidated, but when she spoke and her intelligence burst from within her, I hid further in the shadows. Scarlett’s brilliance emitted blinding rays. Gazing at her was like staring into the sun.
Scarlett always seemed disinterested, so when she summoned me, I was shocked. She asked me for a favor, a strange one indeed, but it still was a request. When I questioned the motive, she said she would fill me in on the details over a date! This explains her past indifference. Maybe she was in awe as well, but her assertiveness shined through.
I only hope that in time I would have gained enough courage to approach her, but my Scarlett is the braver of us two. I will gather an assortment of newspapers from all of Windham County, and I will do it with great speed. Neither foot nor luggage will hit the ground in my home until my task is complete. I will send it by the fastest post and will pay the highest fee so my love will receive her necessary periodicals. And then when summer ends and the new semester begins, I will return to her so that our new love can blossom!
From the Diary of Anonymous
Date unknown- The jolt of the door opening shook me from my dreary slumber. My head snapped up, and my neck hurt from the reflex. The realization that I was not at home in my plush bed sunk in as my eyes regained focus on my dismal reality. I pushed myself up off of the cold tiled floor of my cell. My tormentor looked emotionless as --- took my scraps of paper from before. I filled the pages with my thoughts as --- directed. As --- laid a fresh batch of blank paper on my cot, I noticed the tray that --- carried. --- placed the tray in front of me on the floor. The aroma hit me, and even if I was not yet ready to admit it, the smell was enticing. The visit was quick and before -- shut and then locked the door, --- instructed, “Please once again keep a journal of your feelings and fill your belly with this food. You must keep your strength.” -- was about to leave, but remembered one last thing. -- waved the papers in --- hands and said, “Thanks for these.” The door then shut. Even though the loud clang was expected, I still jumped. When I heard the bolts locking me in from the outside, my heart still sank.
It took a substantial amount of effort, but my stubbornness prevailed as I avoided staring at the plate. My first instinct was to smash the meal against the wall. Until this point, food never entered my thoughts. The sheer fear and anxiety that haunted my every waking moment quelled my hunger, but with the steaming meal so close, it invited nature to take over. My stomach rumbled, and so I gave in to temptation and glanced over. I expected to see a bowl of gruel or a plateful of picked bones. I was wrong. The meal was nicely prepared. They gave me a well-seasoned chicken thigh and drumstick with a medley of fresh steamed vegetables. There was a porcelain cup that was filled with milk. I wanted to be defiant and disobey ---. Why should I stay strong? For what? I do not know what awaits me or what -- has planned for me, but my outlook seems bleak. Why should I indulge in --- wishes? Maybe I should just wither away. It might be worth it if my disobedience caused --- disappointment or annoyance. But my mouth was salivating. It was over a day since I have last eaten. Maybe just a sip from the cup? The milk was cold and delicious. I was careful not to gulp it down, as I knew it would result in vomiting. I took a nip of the chicken and vowed not to touch what remained. It was important to me to defy -- even if it resulted in self-harm. I didn’t want to have the satisfaction that I was under --- control, even if I was a prisoner. My plan was a diversion, so I stared at my cot and ignored the rest of the meal. I couldn’t wait to see the look in --- eyes when --- came back to retrieve the plate only to find it untouched!
I was weak. Within ten minutes I had given in and devoured the food. If it gave me a second opportunity, perhaps I would be stronger. Sitting in a puddle of pity and self-loathing as chicken juice dripped from my chin, I noticed something in the corner window. As I rose, I kicked the plate, and it made a loud clang. I noticed the plate had chipped. I picked up the dish and smirked with satisfaction that I had tarnished one of --- belongings.
My gaze lowered, and I saw the bones discarded on the floor. The pile of bones, gristle, and fat looked sickening, and I felt queasy. The leftover pickings gave the sensation of barbarism as if it was a relic of a brief massacre. Maybe that chicken was imprisoned in its own cage and sat in its cell waiting to be slaughtered only to become my unwanted meal and then have its remains rot on my tiled floor. Maybe I would suffer the same fate?
How distracted I had become. I whisked back to what drew my attention. I approached the wall and stood on my tippy-toes, but I could not gain a good view. The cot made a screeching sound as I dragged it to the corner. I stood atop the mattress, and even though it wasn’t perfect, I could see well enough. There was a large spider web that was spun in the corner of the open slit. Even though such a feat was a marvel, it didn’t spark my interest. It was the fly that inched towards the trap that fascinated me. I must have watched for minutes, or was it hours? The fly teased the situation, growing its nerve, and then retreating. It used its wings to scour the area and then landed and crept forward with its frenetic legs. To my dismay, the pest flew out the window.
I still stood vigil atop of my cot and waited for quite some time. My patience was rewarded as the fly returned. I don’t know what that fly was thinking or even if it was capable of thought, but its demeanor changed on this second approach. It chose the ground and was assertive as it crawled up into the web. The fly made it up about a quarter of the way until it became entangled and stuck. The fly didn’t attempt to free itself. Its wings did not flutter with panic. It sat there waiting. The fly looked free from anxiety or worry. There was no question of what was to come. The fly had succumbed to its fate. It took a few hours for the spider to emerge. The spider noticed its prize and secured the fly in a tight bundle for safe keeping. It crawled away, saving its feast for another time. And there rested the fly, all snug and comfortable just waiting for its inevitable demise.
My nausea returned, and I laid down on my filthy cot hugging my knees.