There, behind the faucet, movement. A black bug trying to crawl up toward the wall, An invader, seeking purchase in the house And from there, where next? He let water drip onto the bug from his finger. Knocked down an inch, it struggled upward again. He attacked it with more drips Then got the idea of using soap. Worse than water, right? Would it seal the wings Or make breathing impossible? It was something bad for sure. He dripped soapy bombs on the black bug His other hand flicked strafing drops Pushing it down, downsliding Into the bowl of the sink. The running water was hot A rivulet streamed from his hand Driving the bug into the drain. The water was scalding now. But the bug still struggled. Surely it couldn't survive The drain, the hot water, the soap? Just a black bug, Maybe still fighting Gone from sight. A species far inferior to humans It wasn't like harming a person He could never do that. On the news, inhumanity flares Soldiers drop bombs On murderous enemies Torture them for crucial intel. Border guards cage children Looking for a foothold. A nightmare to imagine. Not like toying with a mere bug With soap bombs and scalding water. He could never do that to a person He was sure it wasn't in him.
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I so often try to be polite when killing buggy creatures knowing that they feel pain also. I avoid doing it slowly, making it a torment is not in my blood. It's the chemical warfare I am inflicting on so many that really bothers me.