Bug: A slice of life (or death)

There’s a bug on the bedroom wall.

It’s a millipede.

Or a centipede.

One of those bugs with lots of legs.

I’m not sure what it is. I’m not an entomologist.

Though people say I look like one.

The bug has not moved in five minutes.

Neither have I.

If my wife were to see it, she would kill it, or ask me to kill it.

I don’t want to kill it.

It’s not that I’m not a bug lover.

I just don’t like to kill things unless I have to.

At school, I always try to coax the bees back out of the room rather than kill them.

I have been known to catch flies when they land and release them outside.

It impresses my students.

(I always wash my hands after).

When I was a kid I shot a bird in a tree with a BB gun. (I’m a good shot).

I had this little kid idea that I would just stun it, then take it home and keep it as a pet.

When the bird fell, I ran over to catch it before it flew away.

It lay on the ground. It was breathing in a labored way.

I picked it up. It moved in my hand. It breathed in gasps. A little blood tricked out of its beak.

Then it died.

I’ve never forgotten that moment.

I am a killer.

Some people say I look like one.

This bug on the wall and I are having a kind of staring contest.

Who will move first?

Me.

I have to get ready for work.

I shower and return to the bedroom to dress. The bug is still there.

He must be making sure.

As I head out the door to go to work, my wife says something about there being a bug on the wall.

She says something about killing it.

I leave.

The bug is not there when I get home.

I don’t know if she killed it.

Maybe it’s dead.

Maybe not.

It’s still alive in my mind.

And now in yours.