3:14 AM on a cold September night.

I dropped to my knees and reached under the bed for the bottle. Shaking it made no sound and I made my sluggish walk into the kitchen for a refill. The kitchen was a small space lit with a murky source of light from outside. Bright enough for me to find the water can. Dim enough for me to stub my toe against the water can.

Resisting the wail of pain, I watched gravity do its toxic job of pulling stuff down, filling up my bottle. A zippy movement in the periphery of my vision drew my attention. I tilt my neck to notice a peculiar black spot on the floor. What made it peculiar? The other black spots lacked a third dimension. This cannot be just another black spot. I frisked the wall in search of the switchboard and turned the lights on. There he was, a whole inch of a cockroach with whiskers as long as his body, in all glory.

I usually don’t get creeped out by insects unless they decide to flex their wings. I was alert to not let him dash away but he didn’t move a muscle. Do cockroaches have muscles? Anyway, perhaps he was hoping I hadn’t seen him. It’s a good idea not to make himself obvious and make me come after him. I had no intentions of violence though. I just wanted to escort him out in the most civil way possible.

I fixed my stare on him and took a few steps back to grab the broom. Contemplating my weapon of choice, I traced back my steps forward to close the distance between us. He was still holding onto the act of “You think, therefore I am”. I tried to pin him down taking advantage of my (relatively) massive arm reach but my terrible accuracy got the best of me. He wasn’t playing anymore. He revved up his motors and dashed in a frenzy to reach under the fridge, changing directions at the speed of the wind. I managed to block his path and stub him down. My internal dialogue read, “Sir, you are under arrest”.

I kept the broom pressed against the floor and dragged it alongside my steps towards the outdoor. A doubt sprang in me to check if he was still there under the broom. I couldn't see him, I couldn't feel him. I only have the absence of him as the evidence. I released the press to swipe him off outside, but he obviously had a trick rolled up in his sleeve. He jumped over the broom and ran towards my shoe rack to cloak himself. Panic set in as a sudden surge of rage, flared with annoyance, overtook me. I raised my broom and brought it down to land a thundering blow right on his spine. I think I just ended a life. I lifted the broom to find him plastered to the floor with twitching legs and the stamp mark of his fluids. I lifted him with a paper and flung him out like I couldn’t care less.

Post-violence remorse was settling in. Was that really necessary? Couldn’t I be more patient? How arrogant of me to kill another living being for its mere existence threatened my comfort? Is this what I’m making out of my fortune to be born a human? all the miraculous evolution over thousands of years for what? to be an absolute unkind cunt with no empathy? I’m a living being and so is he. Who told me that my life is more important? Imagine the plight of his family anticipating his return with food. Did he ever guess that he would die today? I feel so awful under my skin.

I did the walk of shame back into my room, lay on my bed and habitually picked up the phone. Before my own moral counselling produced more Impending resentment, I logged on to twitter and scrolled these overbearing thoughts away.

In the following couple of weeks, I killed 8 more.