So, I have 4 hours of class a day. Then I come home and do homework, and when that’s done it’s roughly time to go for my one-hour conversation practice with Lala (miss) Leila (Leila.) We hold it at the McDonalds each day. So, I come back to the Villa, not expecting to be exposed to madness from beyond the other side of sanity, and I see the sweet old man that guards the door wandering the garden with a plastic bag. So I go to chat with him. I must have shown an interest in the bag, or he must have been proud, because he offered to show me its contents. I thought, surely it’s something normal, perhaps shoes, perhaps mint for tea, perhaps a book.
THE BAG CONTAINED A HORDE OF WRITHING, SCREAMING SNAILS.
Now, I didn’t know snails can writhe. They can. I didn’t know that they can scream. They can. And the worst part is, they don’t just scream: they scream in Arabic. I will forever be haunted by the sound, thousands of struggling snails, high-pitched snail voices rising like a horrible tide: EEAWNIIIII! EEAWNIIII! EEAWNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII! That’s help me, help me, help meeeeeeee, if you’re wondering. When it rains, as it is currently doing here, they appear by legions, and apparently, they are scooped to their doom by the man that looks like a tan, mustachioed version of my grandfather.
When I close my eyes, I see screaming snails. I can feel their tiny non-eyes on me. I can still hear their tiny voices. BRIIGHTNA-EK TEEAWNIII! Surely this shall drive me mad. I can already see myself, curled up in a dark room with no furniture, late at night, my eyes red, gibbering the words of insanity to myself while the silhouettes of hidious shells dance on the wall. My life has been destroyed.