The Fly

Its slimy, pulsating physique is born in the rot and filth of the discarded. It whines and wrenches itself through the components of the moldering mort, never satisfied until it bursts from excess. From its nonage, it is taught to take what is not belonging to itself and rejoice in idleness.

The fly grows, and having been born in putrescence, only expands its knowledge and thirst for the foul matter that will suffocate and mutilate the conscious. It will chase the craving of its heart malignantly, renouncing all remaining signs of sentience once its only goal is to gratify pleasure. The fly shows no regard for its kin; it will pursue the threat to comfort with violence; the last thing it would want is think of another. The fly does not care for who it may harm; the only thing of true importance in midst will only be itself.

All who are plagued by the misfortune of acquiring its presence are tormented, 

"How can such a one be so lost in derangement?" 

The unfortunate one laments in the newfound unwarranted agony; his only option is to eradicate the presence of the rotter by all means necessary.

"Oh, how foul!"

"So annoying!"

"Disgusting!"

"Stay away!"

"Stupid thing!"

"I have many names," says the fly, "because I was never given one at my birth. I am one of the many brought in and castaway, taught the traditions of fools so as to at least save the predecessor of guilt and shame."

The fly begins to rub its hands, "I have no identity; I cannot be told apart from one fly or the other, yet I still believe I have something of value without ever being given the insinuation of one."

It pauses, "What do you think?"

The spider in the adjacent corner on the ceiling simply observes the product of inexperience, before she takes her time to speak, 

"You are the brainless scum all avoid. Yet somehow, they are accompanied by your presence anyway."

The fly stares silently.

"On some occasions the existence of yours is good, as long as it satiates the hunger or entertainment of another. But for the most common portion of your occupancy, you incur anguish, and cause others to fall into your senselessness; you harm more than you help, fly."

"It's alright," says the fly, "maybe one day I'll become a butterfly like I was supposed to."