As soon as I slumped down into my seat I knew I was going to kill him. I'd never seen him before, or at least, if I did I couldn't tell him apart from any of the others I'd seen, they all look the same to me. He noticed me too, I could tell because he twitched nervously, obviously trying to decide if he should make a break for the door. He didn't though, which was a mistake because that was probably his only real chance at escape and survival.
If I'm being honest, I can't tell you how many of them I've killed. I've lost count over the years. Every one I've seen I've taken a stab at, except for a brief stint where I found Jesus, and just tossed them outside without killing them. It's funny how even after finding religion prejudice usually nestles right back into your heart, you know, once you get tired of trying so hard. At any rate, his kind isn't supposed to be here.
As I sat there, staring into his beady little eyes, I reflected on who I was, who I had become. There I sat, plotting murder without any reservation or remorse. He was created by the same God as I was, wasn't he? As revolting as he was, even if his presence alone made me sick to my stomach, God formed him and sent him to this earth. Didn't that deserve some kind of respect? Some kind of empathy, or kindness? Probably, but God wasn't there, not in that room, not in my heart, not for him anyway. He was going to die.
The most disturbing part in that moment though, was how cooly I went about it. I didn't even try to put him out of his misery. I let him sit there, nervously, probably sensing he was going to die, while I finished my business. And as soon as I did, I stood up, walked over to him, squished him with wadded up toilet paper, threw him in the toilet and flushed. I didn't even have a hard time sleeping that night, so engrained was my depravity. I don't suffer spiders in my bathroom.