Everyone always thought I had a fascination with spiders. I kept lots of them, one of every size.
Tarantulas, black widows, wolf spiders, brown recluses, banana spiders and even a huntsman spider.
Truth is I was terrified of them. The way they crawled, slow and calculated. The way they stare at you with all those eyes like they are deeper in thought than a meditating monk.
The eight legs…just looking at them makes me feel like I have 100 of them crawling over every inch of my skin.
And those fangs, ready at any moment to try and pierce your skin and suck your soul through the wounds.
I used them as a tool to try and get over my fear, but it never worked so I kept trying, just acquiring more and more.
I let everyone believe I liked them…It was easier to explain than the fact that I used them as a way to face my fears, and overcome them. I would beat these spiders in this mental game.
It wasn’t until they pronounced me dead that I realized I made a huge mistake. I wasn’t actually dead but they thought I was, and the fact I couldn’t move didn’t help.
They put me in a casket and I was horrified, they were going to bury me alive. Why can they not tell I’m alive?
I heard a voice
“No it’s not he would want to be buried with them, he loved them.”
“Fine, just get it over with”.
I realized I still had feeling as they dumped in all the spiders and closed the casket.