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