Death is everywhere, there are flies on the windscreen, for a start, reminding us we could be torn apart

Thoughtful words there from one of Britain’s foremost thinkers, Martin Gore. Strangely though, Gore didn’t contemplate collecting those flies and wrapping them in silk to keep for a lovely snack later that evening. Instead he and his Depeche Mode bandmates dressed up in leather bondage gear and spent the rest of the nineteen eighties in a whirl of sex, drugs, US stadium tours and record signings in Our Price on Basildon High Street. Never mind lads, all the more flies for me.

But going back to the point, I got up this morning and fought my way through the usual new-build webs which have appeared across my doorways overnight. Into the kitchen, I stuck some toast in the toaster. How come I only ever eat actual breakfast at weekends? With my bread beginning to singe I re-assessed my lifestyle choices while absent mindedly looking for a butter knife. Unsurprisingly I didn’t have a clean one, but there’s probably one still in the cold washing up water from last night. OK, from last week. Over to the sink, my hand began it’s swoop down to the bowl. Just before my fingers touch the water I looked down. Yeeuuughheeewuughhhrrr.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve seen plenty of corpses before. Limbs removed, organs torn and smeared across blooded surfaces. I’ve seen parents randomly murdered in front of their children. Children taken from their families on thrown from a great height. I’ve seen mass killings as entire areas are “cleansed” of their inhabitants just because their neighbours didn’t like them. I’ve seen death. I’ve seen it, because I had become it. But this morning’s corpse was not my doing. When I cull, I cull quickly. A quick swat and splat and it’s done. There should be no pain, no anguish, no wondering why. But to drown? to feel your body filling up and know you have no diaphragm to help cough the water out of your basic lung system? Scratching and clawing at the smooth plastic walls in a final attempt to crawl out of your own grave. At what point do you give up and sink to the bottom? How long is it till your panic, your desperation, your agony, your hope is gone? That’s just cruel.

I solemnly emptied the water from the bowl, encased the poor spider in some kitchen roll and gave it a proper burial. In the bin. Rest well, little one. If I see your family, I’ll inform them of what’s become of you. If one of them then wanders anywhere near my head though, I’ll squash the bastard.

Scaryness: 9. Death is everywhere, the more I look, the more I see, the more I feel a sense of urgency