What is normal for the spider, is chaos for the fly.

My name is Bast, and finally I am dead.

My corpse is at my feet, and what I see on the ground before me appears to be that of a 22 year old woman; a woman 5 feet 2 inches in the old money, and is lying like Jesus on the cross, flat on its back and arms outstretched across the most magnificent 16th century Persian rug.

Burnished wavy auburn, excruciatingly high maintenance, waist length hair cascades around my size 8 shoulders, highlighting those blank and staring emerald green eyes of mine, eyes purpose built for smiling. Windows to the soul apparently, yet those eyes, my eyes, are eyes that have drawn compliment and witnessed the history of my 1700 and something years on earth. And there they are, wide open, taking the focus off the light smattering of nigh invisible freckles cunningly spread across the alabaster skin of my…