Cockroaches fucking

They always do that. When you arrive home after a long day, wanting nothing but rest. When you enter the shower, thrilled to step out a new, if fresher person. They are there. On the wall, or the floor. Driving you to insanity, proving there's no safety in the sanitary.

My palace pristine

I got out of bed last night to fetch a glass of water. As is my late night habit. I turned on the lights to the kitchenette, my eyes, still adjusting to the brightness, thought they saw a harmless house gecko. Upon closer inspection, I realized that it was a pair of small cockroaches fucking. They were motionless but I knew for sure that they were doing it.

My reflexes would have me reaching for the insecticide, but the motherfuckers were just above my jar of ground coffee and spice rack. Fuck them. Maybe I was in shock far longer than I imagined. You might think that I had forgotten about my thirst, but no, the scenario instead magnified the state of my parched throat, my sleep-deprived brain, my lonely frame standing in the periphery of a meaningless world. To bed I returned.

But awake I remained. The image was stuck in my head. Better that I don't call it fucking as it denotes a human behavior colored by pleasure.

This morning I was on a mission. Deep clean — whatever that meant — the cooking area. There's no moral here. Only an expression of my disgust for the Devil's handiwork. They don't deserve to live. And yet they were there, uninvited, at my favorite spot, procreating. I took so much offense. As I cleared the countertop, I caught a glimpse of a pest. Sprayed the bastard with poison and watched it die. Ensured its death. A few minutes later, another pest came to view, crawling drunkenly. To the trash can they both went.

Now I may not have an airtight proof that those were the same cockroaches that previously petrified me, but deep in my heart I felt like I won. I felt peace. I felt quenched.

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