The Web

The silvery strands of creation, woven together by a creature so small.

I've never liked spiders.

Some raindrops gather on the silky strings.

A gust of wind, and it ricochets. Bounces right off the web like water on a ducks back.

The creator sits in the centre, looking ever so proud of what it made up. It's best efforts.

Another gust of wind, a twig snaps. Plunging through one area of the web.

The spider scuttles into the safety net of the other side. Halts to a stop. Comes to rest. It can always remake that area. Lay down a new path.

But, I've never liked spiders.

I lift my hand, ripping my finger through another portion of it's efforts. Wrapping the strings around my finger like a puppeteer.

I'm the controller now. The power.

It attempts to run. Scuttles up an edge of its ladder.

I flick it right off, watching as it flies somewhere into the damp morning grass.

I don't see it again.

The next day, I find the same spider on the same tree. Web remade. It probably spent all night, winding out the string into a form of art.

I've never liked spiders.

I bat it off the web. Yelp as it sticks to my hand for a second before falling off, back into the same dewy grass.

No matter how many times it gets batted from its web, its efforts are remade. It probably thinks it's good enough.

Not today. I step forward and squash it right under my shoe. Give it a twist.

No effort will be good enough. Will be strong enough to keep it safe.

I glance to my hands. At the strings flowing from my limbs as I perch on my web. My life, my creation.

My two decades work in one hand, my best efforts in the other.

Until a sharp voice cuts a portion of my web, sending me reeling.

But It's okay. I can always remake that area. I can always weave it back together. I've done so before.

I'm flicked to the ground. Worthless, meaningless. Nothing. Will the world really change so drastically with one less web?

I guess they don't like spiders.

But it's okay. I don't care. I'll get back on my tree. Mend the damage.

I do just that.

The next morning, I'm awoken to a harsh gust of wind. I almost lose my balance, but I stay stuck in place.

That puppeteer comes up to me, and once again, slices down my web. This time not just once. But twice. Thrice.

I fall to the ground.

I push myself up and run. It's okay. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow has to be better than this.

That's what I've told myself the hundred times I've remade my web. Remade myself. Pieced myself back together.

And this time, I doubt myself. I can't keep remaking it. Going on like this. I'm tired.

The blade studded boot lands on my back, and I'm nothing anymore. I'll be forgotten. Washed away with the rain, washed away in the crimson bath water.

After all, the world will go on with one less web of emotions.

I really never liked spiders.