A Killing

I’m sitting at the sink, sharpening my father’s old knives and all of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, I see one of those little bastards scurry across the floor and dive under the dishwasher. I haven’t seen any of them inside the house since I started using traps.  I’ve not used those in several years, and these guys have never come back.  Until now.

I stand up, take off my slipper, run over, and roll the dishwasher out. He’s frozen by the sudden light.

I remember when I was young, I would be falling asleep at night, and I could hear my father in the kitchen killing them by the dozens.  The sound of that slap, slap, slap.  Like a machine gun.

For the most part, I’m kind to all living things, believe that all life is sacred, but these little guys don’t make the list.

I raise my arm way up, then come down with a force that sends little bits of guts squishing out from the sides of my slipper.

My conscience tugs at me for a moment.  I hate it when they fall to their knees and beg for mercy just before you kill them.


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