Essay On David Bigsley

He had never ran so fast in his life before; but today was an exception. Like a fox to his prey, he was being relentlessly pursued by a madman, a letter knife in his right hand. This was no ordinary psychopath, it was his master and friend, Professor Bigsley. His unfortunate assistant, who had been so loyal to him for one year now, was going to meet his end by the professor’s wrinkled and aging hands. The assistant, after a few minutes on running from his killer, had an intuitive idea.
He rushed into his quarters, which he was provided by Professor Bigsley after the assistant was hired by him. His eyes darted toward a hammer and nails, and he knew what to do. He used anything he could find to block the door; table legs, table tops, the legs of his bed, and even his chair. The professor bashed the door with vigor, but the door stood like an obstinate mule. Noticing a quill and ink that he had placed on the floor while
If you do not know me, you may know the esteemed Professor Joshua David Bigsley, who formerly taught at the University of Oxford before his retirement in 1755. I am his personal assistant in Bigsley Manor. This man was esteemed by his students, praised by his colleagues, and loved by everyone that met him. But he has now spiraled into a hole of madness, I do not know whether from his elderly age, or the moon that shines above, but he comes at me, a weapon in his hand.
The Professor Bigsley I knew from one year ago was a sympathetic and doting man. He gave to the poor, was a devout Christian and would never dare assault anyone, even if they had afflicted harm upon him. When he had saw me, an impoverished young man of twenty-nine with nothing but the clothes on his back, he took me in, tutored me in math and science, and made me the proud man I am today. But I shall tell you, the reader of this letter, the story of a formerly sound man, who was soon sucked in by the whirlpool of