Coming up with an intro to this story is proving to be harder than actually writing the story itself. I suppose I'll go without for now at least...
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I’m staying home again, this makes it a whole week off of school sick, it’s getting ridiculous; I’m almost starting to miss the horrid place. Well, whatever, I may still be sick and weak, but at least I can prove I’m not worthless, I try to convince myself of this as I close the washer door and push a few buttons to send it in motion. I’m doing my own laundry, hardly a noble feat, yet still more than I usually do, it’s still something.
Not enough, though, there’s still more I can help with, I suppose the kitchen is probably a good enough place to go. The dishwasher is full of clean dishes to unload. Such a simple task. Stacking up piles of dishes, putting them where they belong, it’s just so easy and clean of a job. It’s in stark contrast to the task which I know must complement it, sure enough, before I know it, the clean dishes are gone and I know I must load the dishwasher with dirty dishes.
As a man it obviously embarrasses me to admit how much the dirty dishes disgust me. Despite my feelings, I continue the job. Holding every dish away from me, trying to wait out the time it takes them to dry as unknown drops are still dripping from most of them; I stuff them in the dishwasher, barely even looking. And the utensils… My god, every single one is a nightmare, each of which coated in some strange disgusting goo that falls down onto my hands in clumps as I handle them. I know I can wash my hands whenever I wish, the sink is right there, still though, ugh…Eventually the momentous grind has halted, glorious day!
Still there are some unnecessary objects cluttering the counter, for the most part I move them where they belong, in other cases, I’m clueless and just shove them as close to the wall as they can be to take up little space. The counter is almost spotless, I might think, but the expression isn’t even close to fitting the counter, spots are everywhere on it, spills, crumbs, everything really. I grab a conveniently placed cloth, wet it, grab some paper towels, and clean off every countertop and even the stove in the room. All cleaned and dried.
I’ve hardly ever seen the room like this; I step back and adore my masterpiece. Of course, things can not be perfect, they just cannot. Out of the corner of my eye I see one of the most frightening spiders imaginable, large and brown, with many long legs. I watch the creature’s movements. You are the one disrupting my vision, you are interfering with this perfect picture, I think, staring at it in loathing. I feel as if the thing is watching me as well, it has slowed its pace of wandering across the wall to more of a crawl. The end must come soon for him, as he wanders over the wall where the fridge is.
I grab the nearby broom, as fitting a weapon as any, the spider appears unarmed, but I remain cautious, approaching slowly and distantly… The broom jabs at him once, twice, dust flying everywhere that must have been gathering on the broom for months now. At last, the spider is off the wall, but where has he gone? I set down the broom and stare into it, he’s either fallen into there or he’s on top of the fridge and finishing him will be an immense challenge. I’m about the check the fridge when I see him move slightly on top of the bristles of the broom, I may have him. I just need something to finish him off.
I know just the thing, a flyswatter, but do we have one? I worry about that as I hurry off to look. If it’s not in the closet, I won’t find it, I’m almost in despair as I look through, there doesn’t seem to be one here. After giving up I find it, on the hook, nearly hidden behind a “spirit level” instrument, which is of no use to me, I already have planned the instrument of his demise. Ironic that a mere flyswatter will be the cause of the brutal slaying of something as mighty as an arachnid, I chuckle quickly and hurry back to the broom, thinking that the spider must be gone by this point.
He’s not, he’s right where I left him, is he injured or just stupid? Either way I find no pity for the creature.
“Die, die, die…” I mutter, laughing as I bring the flyswatter down on him again and again and again.
All I see left is a torso, ground to pieces. Overkill? Probably, but it’s better than underkill, what if I was trying to dispose of the body and it jumped into my face? No, it’s better this way… I have to move the lid of the dirty garbage can onto the stove as I’m disposing of his remains, his legs were probably hacked off, several at a time, I’m almost admiring the brutality of my actions, I step back to look at the scene.
An old broom lies on the counter, the dust from the struggle strewn all over the place. The spider… Well, I know where his torso is, but his legs are another story, they’re probably all over the place at this point. The lid of the garbage can is still on the stove…
This isn’t clean, that’s all I can think to myself. I dispose of the remains of the spider I can locate, put the broom back in the corner, and put the lid back on the garbage can. Finally, I grab the same cloth as last time, and let the water run over it…
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