I killed a fly today. That's not unusual, but the way it happened kind of was. I saw the fucker on my kitchen counter, and I slapped my hand down on it. The problem was, I didn't do it hard enough. I mortally wounded the poor fella. He rolled in on himself, and his one good wing fluttered so hard that he kept jumping around in his death throes. I don't think I've seen an insect in so much pain.
I felt really sorry for him. I know I would hate it if some giant bastard slapped me down hard enough to cripple me but not kill me. The only thing to do in the situation was finish him off as quickly as I could. Unfortunately, his dying body was too fast for me. I brought my hand down again a couple of times, but I still didn't get the job done. Finally, I used both hands and mercifully ended his life. If anything could be considered mercy by that point, it was this.
It really bothered me, the way I let him suffer. I don't like bugs, and I kill them if they're in the house or on me, but I do so quickly and with zero suffering for the victim. If I find them outside, I leave them alone because that's where they're supposed to be.
Yet it wasn't always this way. When I was a kid, I was a motherfucking savage. I still left bugs outside alone, but if I found them in my house, I considered them to be trespassing. Trespassers had to be punished. If they actually touched me in my own house, that was an instant death sentence.
How did I punish them? I had a bug zoo, but it was really a bug jail. I'd toss 'em in and wait for them to die. If they were particularly troublesome (ie. they refused to starve to death), I'd drown them in a mason jar.
That's some serial killer shit right there. But at the same time, I think it's very illustrative of how much I've changed since I was a kid. I'm telling you, 98% of you would have hated me between the ages of five and twenty. I was a cunt back then. (The other 2% are still somehow friends with me. Go figure.)
Sorry, fly-who-I-killed-tonight. I didn't mean it to end that way.