In the silence that prevailed in the room, only the sound of flies could be heard. That continuous buzzing produced by the frantic beating of their wings. The man in the chair did not move. He had not moved for quite some time. In fact, he was no longer a man. Not if a man is defined as someone who lives, breathes, and feels. Because now he had become food. A refuge for insects and worms. The flies flew in large swarms around the motionless body. They sat on it. Their jaws worked. Then they flew again, searching for another piece of body to land on. They tried one here and another there. They fell on top of each other. The area around the wound on the man's head was of particular interest. The metallic smell of blood had long since disappeared and had been replaced by another, more stale and sweeter one. The blood had coagulated. At first, it had come out from the back of his head and had flowed down the back of the chair. It ended up on the floor, where it formed a small pool and then solidified. At first, it was red, full of living blood cells. Now it had changed color, becoming almost black. The pool no longer seemed to consist of that thick fluid that flows in a person's veins. Now it was simply a viscous, black mass.
Some flies tried to fly out. They were satiated. Satisfied. They had laid their eggs. Their jaws had worked hard and had filled their insides, quelling their hunger. Now they wanted to fly away. They beat their wings against the glass, as they vainly tried to pass through the invisible barrier. When they collided with the glass surface, the sound that was heard resembled a muffled rattling. Sooner or later, they gave up the attempt. When they felt hungry again, they visited once more what was once a man. What now was simply meat.
