The Bug Destroyer

clarinet
I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.

Every time I look at my hands, I can still feel the chill of the water rushing over my fingers. I remember each one’s expression as they washed down the drain. Blood was on my hands. It was inevitable, I reassured myself. When I fall asleep each night, I forget one more face. My memories are washed away, but I don’t think there’s going to be any room for me in fruit fly heaven.

There is no regret. There is only the resonance of the clap, and the anticipation of a foreign corpse on your hands. I’m not going to say that they deserved it. I’m not going to try to come to a conclusion. I’m not going to tell you about my opinion. There was – there is only death. Death, and extermination.

If you ever catch a bug with one hand, you shouldn’t open it until you’re prepared.

Prepared for gore? No; prepared for it to come flying out of your hands, buzzing away in slightly shakier circles. Your hand can’t fully clasp onto itself – there will always be gaps. You hope that you aren’t trapping them in the gap. You’re hopping that they’re caught between two hard places – your palm, and your fingers. If they ever fly out, have your other hand ready. Seize every opportunity you have. When they’re visible, they’re a target. No matter where they are, you’ll be able to move faster. There’s only so much energy that they have in their tiny bodies.

Two handed is the preferred way of killing them. More surface area to work with, but more time needed to prepare. If you have the time, then this is the best way. Stagger your hands, so that the grooves in one hand fill out the grooves in the other. Don’t turn your hands – your fingers are valuable real estate. By the time your hands can clap together, they’ll have moved about half an inch. You won’t always be able to reach them with your palms. Sometimes, you have to improvise.

And so I did. How many has it been now? At least twenty, I think. More than I’ve seen in my whole life. Every five minutes, clap. I didn’t always hit, but I knew that I was still gaining from every slap. I was getting faster. I was smoothing out my motions. The slaps were getting louder. My hands started getting number.

I didn’t bother trying to look any closer than my arm’s length away. There’s nothing to see. It’s just a mildly contorted “bug.” Another faceless being, lost to the void. As I wash each one down the sink, I don’t mourn for them. I don’t bother thinking about their families. They won’t live for much longer, anyways.

When I see a mirror, I don’t ask myself about my regrets. These bugs are insignificant. They weren’t human in the first place. There was no empathy. There was only a black grain of rice, and two semi-transparent ovals. Their feelings aren’t real to me. Their pain isn’t real to me. I look down on their ambitions. I dismiss every single one of them.

I struggle to think of how I would feel in their situation. I don’t bother thinking. I just kill. And if someone tries to kill me like that…

I’d just hope that my body looks good when it goes down the drain. That’s all I can hope for.

No sympathy for the likes of me.

No sympathy for the wicked.

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