I slide gracefully down the wire; the stench of fear: something marvelous awaits me. Its attempts to flee are growing weaker, slowing down as it loses the will to fight. Through the blackness, I see its reflected eyes darting back and forth, seeking its trapper. I appreciate the fighting spirit: the meat is darker and firmer; it tastes richer. Has it realized that it’s lost? I’ve had some fighters, but they all eventually sink into despair, and in their anguish, I feel the surge of life-affirming joy. If nobody sees us down here—what I’m doing to the creatures regularly roaming into my lair—then no one will stop me. Things are so nice here. The weather is harsh, but I’m warm in the solace of the yellow glow of the machinery nearby. Still, I need to wait until my prize is physically and spiritually fatigued before I can feast. Other things must be done.
I creep towards another corner of the room. These walls are warm, rumbling with a low hum, such a lovely noise that only helps my cause: lulling everything exposed into a deep trance—I’ve long resisted its charms. A soft breeze tickles the tendrils on my legs as I crawl. I inspect every wire. Are they strong? Will they cave under a struggle? I add supporting lines here and there, bolstering the stability of my snares. One day, I know something big will come along. Down here, it’s warm. A paradise. I could feast forever. They won’t see or hear me as I sneak up to bite their struggling forms. I cannot let anyone escape, as they might reveal my existence up here, and learn what’s really going on. I can ensnare the occasional passerby, but an army, or one of those supremely colossal creatures? I must avoid this at all costs. No one may leave once they’ve joined me here. I’ve opened a hatchway into the interior—just wide enough to see the alluring glow of warmth from within. Don’t you want to stay where it’s warm—avoid that chill that permeates your system, slowing the blood in your veins until it lays still?
Speaking of leftovers, I check the other room nearby and admire the lifeless bodies hanging from the ceiling. Some are wrapped in boundless amounts of thread. Their partially eaten bodies remain preserved by the icy surroundings, away from the warm light. They will be delectable when thawed in the room next door. What were their final thoughts before they turned into these hanging treats? I’m not one for conversation, but they seem to love me! Their legs are tightly bound, but those permanent, mouth-agapped expressions strike me as if they were caught mid-laugh at a comedy show. Yes. And I was the performer. The inventory is enough to keep things going until spring, sure, but I’ll need to roam again. I leave the room, but double-check to make sure the door to the warmth is tightly locked shut—I don’t want to lose my stash.
There’s my pride and joy. They’re hanging by more than just threads, but by the nutrition of those petrified souls on ice. They are my motivation to lure, to trap, to subdue, and to feast. They’re strung together into an immobile glob—i.e., until they’re ready to leave. Do not take advantage of my efforts: only leave my sanctuary if you deserve to do so, if you’ve earned it, if you’ve proven to your brothers and sisters that you are equipped for what’s to come; a winner, especially at their expense. I will feel proud if only one of you leaves the nest with a full stomach, nourished by your siblings. Recompense in the eternal struggle to live in this filth by persisting at the expense of others—as I’ve done. To continue this cycle that I have mastered.
Our red abdomens are not just a warning, but a symbol, representing how our time and blood is inseparable, and will remain as such so long as we turn the hourglass and carry on this precious cycle over and over.