Wriggling frantically, he struggles, baking in the sun. How did he get himself here? Surely he'll die. Though he has lost hope, he flails and thrashes as he feels the splashing blood. He'd been warned about this position. He'd been told to remain calm and work steadily to get out of it. He'd always been sure that he could follow those instruction if the situation ever arose. He was wrong. On his back, inhibited, he forgets everything he had ever learned about anything.
He rests and almost gives up. One last try; just put forth enough effort for one last try. Forcing his blood into his legs that scream for a break, he trashes with all of his might and is on his feet again. That doesn't happen! There is no real escape from that horrible situation! But he did it and though his exoskeleton ached, he flew fast, rejoicing at his escape from a painful torturous death.
Of a fly that didn't die.
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