Othello

It is a barely-perceptible, tiny wriggly thing. You take no notice, it’s hardly even there. Occasionally, it irritates you, a miniscule speck in your eye, a sporadic thorn in your side. And behind your back, it grows. It feeds, voracious, insatiable, like newly-hatched larvae, it feeds. And it grows. Till you cannot ignore it anymore, the hideous, rotting creature, oozing slime and filth, ever feeding, ever growing. And suddenly, you stare at it in the face, horrified, as it beckons to you, reaches out for you. You struggle to escape, to draw yourself away from its snatching, grasping clutches. You fight, and you lose. Its slobbering jaws are close to your face now, its putrid breath fills your nostrils, and the green glitter of its eyes hold you, repelling, yet fatally fascinating. And you know you are in its power, that you’ve given in, that you can’t fight back any more. You know it’s all over. Strangely, you are relieved. And the monster feeds. And it grows.