The Hungry Caterpillar

It was certainly uncommon to most museums.  Never have the items, precious, been up for sale, starting at a round one-hundred pounds and upwards from there.  Never has there been a swimming pool shrouded in the Autumn light by thick furr trees. 

They were, for the most part, fruitful but crawling with avid, hungry caterpillars, clinging to the branches, overhanging, almost dipping into the pool of water.  It was cold, well, looked cold but nonetheless busy for the time of year.  The water rippled from the splashes of a oyung boy.  Playing, scooping up the dirty water in his mouth and spitting it.  It was only when he spat the seventh caterpillar out did I realise who the boy was.  

What's that?  Something squirming, slimy, writihing around inside me.  In my chest.  I reach my whole hand in my mouth and pluck my own caterpillar.  The boy's eyes are on me, alight and playful, he's me and now I'm the one choking up caterpillars.  Shit!