Spiders hang from every available surface. A glistening
interconnecting web of silk punctures every corner of the room, connecting one
window to the next, to the lampshade, the chair, the cage.
The
cage lies empty, the remnants of the door hanging limply on their hinges. A few
lone feathers reside at the bottom, pale blue in colour, but faded; remaining
on the shaft barely any strands. It would take a fair few more than a dozen to
even reach equal the weight of the smallest spider in the room. If you wanted
to find the bones of this bird, you would have to look elsewhere. The room has
been scoured from top to bottom many a time with no success. Discarded spider
skin sheds are littered all around; you could not go even a foot without
stepping on another, and another, and another… But those bones? Those are
nowhere to be found. Some say she devoured them, the feathers just what she
coughed up after her meal. Evidence for this hypothesis lies in the forced
entry, the teeth marks at various locations upon the metal bars. Others,
perhaps those more educated (although whether or not these people have received
any kind of educated is itself debated with high spirits), have declared that the
missing bones were a sacrifice; that the beast was slain and skinned and
offered to the Gods. They still have yet to determine if the sacrifice was well
received or not. There is, of course, little to no evidence for this belief
however the people are adamant that it is the true series of events.
You
ask what I think the real story is. I tell you that I do not know. That this
room has been vacant, stagnant, a piece of the past forever preserved in the
present for as long as I can remember. Your lack of subtlety when asking my age
– how long is that? you had questioned – annoys me but I try my best not to let
it show. You are but a child, after all. I don’t answer you. It is not an
important question. You know how I feel about unimportant questions. You
command that I carry on describing the room to you. You crave the knowledge of
the past, the feeling of involvement that you receive from learning about the
mysteries that she is, the folklore, the legends.
There
is just one window in the room, boarded shut, nails of varying degrees of rust
poking out here and there. It is a safety hazard, one the spiders knew – and so
they spun their webs around the sharp edges, cocooning them in style just to
keep her safe. Safe from what is yet another thing that I do not know. I see
the twitch in your eye as you learn this. My guess is your annoyed, both at my
limited knowledge and your own foolish mistake of choosing me.
I
pause. You tell me to continue. I grow tired of your attitude. You grow
indignant. I grow apathetic. Your face flushes; I stand up, I leave. I go to
bed. Goodnight.
Word count: 520
good post
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