Insect Feast

As I sat in the dimly lit village tavern, the aroma of spices and smoke swirling around me, I couldn't resist the temptation of trying the local delicacy—the raw insects that adorned the plate before me. With hesitant fingers, I picked up one of the wriggling creatures, its tiny legs twitching in anticipation.

As I raised it to my lips, I pushed aside the whispers of doubt that echoed in the recesses of my mind. After all, I was an adventurous traveler, eager to immerse myself in the culture of this remote village.

But as the first insect touched my tongue, a wave of revulsion washed over me. The slimy texture, the acrid taste—it was unlike anything I had ever experienced. But I forced myself to swallow, determined to show respect for the culinary traditions of my hosts.

It was only later, as I lay in bed, that the true horror began. A sensation of writhing, of tiny legs crawling, erupted in the depths of my throat. Panic seized me as I realized that the insects were still alive, their tiny bodies squirming and wriggling as they clawed their way up my esophagus.

I gagged and retched, desperate to rid myself of the grotesque invaders, but they seemed to multiply with each passing moment. I could feel them, dozens of them, crawling beneath my skin, their tiny legs prickling against my flesh.

With a scream of terror, I stumbled from my bed, clawing at my throat in a desperate attempt to rid myself of the nightmarish sensation. But the insects, relentless in their onslaught, seemed to have taken root within me, their presence a horrifying reminder of the folly of my curiosity.

As I collapsed to the floor, my body wracked with convulsions, I knew that I was doomed. Trapped in a waking nightmare from which there could be no escape, I could only pray for the sweet release of death to free me from the torment of the insects that now called my body home.