Ding dong. The spider that's been haunting my room for nearly a week is dead, crushed under a hard-back copy of Michael Crichton's Prey, may God rest his soul. MC's that is, not the spider's. Sleep deprivation from a week of terror has left me incapable of feeling remorse.
Not that I'm proud of it. It's marks the first time I've intentionally used these hands for killing.
But perhaps I speak too soon - there's no body to be found underneath the book, only a bloodstain on the skirting board. It's probably still clinging to life, sustained only by it's need for vengeance. While not a hateful man, I sortof hope it bleeds to death.
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