tortures of the damned

The fly looks outside of the jar at the vast emptiness of freedom and the promises of food and procreation. Were the jar's air-hole speckled top removed, it would be for naught. Without wings, the fly was now nothing more than a freakshow specimen of misdirected anger. When the first wing was torn off, the fly tried to get away in spite of its handicap. When that failed, it gave up on any chance of escape or recovery. The large heavy breathing creature grabbed the fly and ripped the other wing from its torso. The jar had a sickly sweet fragrance, probably from mayonnaise that has turned. Still, nothing to eat. Just a scent, a taunt. The fly was halfway through its short life already and expected to remain here till the end, and then some. It knew, without any rationalization or emotion that it would come back. The flies always do. It would return for another week, possibly two, and would be wise to use every moment of that time on vengeance. Assuming, of course, it could get out of this jar. Which, it knew, it probably wouldn't. Nor would it be able to inflict much damage as a fly. Especially one without wings. The most it could hope for was infecting the large heavy breathing creature's food. A small victory, but better than none. And a small victory that would remain, without a doubt, outside its capabilities. Still, it felt secure knowing that other flies had seen the jar…