The Domestic becomes The Hunter
I bend over, swiftly stalking my prey. In my right hand is the weapon which could kill in seconds, in the left I grasp the air we are both breathing. My mind is as a steel trap. It admits no feelings other than a cold-blooded quest for vengeance. It is going to be me, or them.
The smell of cinnamon lingers in the air. I have never known it to be the smell of death before.
They are difficult to spot in what they consider to be their natural habitat: my kitchen. Thanks to the several layers of flooring and tar removed before refinishing, the floor had been gouged in spots and these places are extra dark in the early morning light. It is hard to see, but I am a relentless hunter. If a study on focus needed to be done, I could volunteer. Nothing else exists in that moment.
The time is 7:13 a.m.
A foggy day in late May, in a spring which has been unprecedented.
This version of me is also unprecedented. I swerve for squirrels, brake for birds, and can co-exist peacefully with a reasonable number of ants. The motto of my life has been thus far, “is it hurting me? “ Nope, carry on. I’m sure others come to my house and wonder at the things with which I live: low water pressure, leaky shower, cracked dining room window, faulty locks, etc.
But this I cannot do.
What brought me to this place?
Roaches.
Filthy, disgusting roaches.
They start out small and not cute.
They grow and grow.
Growth is not always a positive thing. Good things and bad things grow.
I have been driven up the screaming, screeching wall by them, by which I mean I, even I, screamed the other day when one ran over my hand. Then jumped, struck my hip on the table, and wept a furious tear or two.
Something had to be done.
My online community recommended a sterilization gel. Without a second thought to all the blighted parental dreams of roaches it was purchased and generously squirted into cracks and crevices and corners.
It still wasn’t enough. It was just bringing them out in droves, even if they couldn’t go procreate afterward.
So I stopped in at a home improvement store, feeling very much as it were that getting rid of these things would be the ultimate home improvement. Forget a new deck. Forget a dish washer. Forget even a hot tub. My biggest dreams were centered on these insects dying.
Insects, or spawn from the Hot Place?
I couldn’t bring myself to purchase the chemicals and so therefore took a chance on something made up of cinnamon oil, and several other things. It was touted to kill in seconds.
It does.
I feel no remorse.
The kitchen is MINE. This territory, once a place of co-habitation of mine and ants has become a place which must be dominated by me, and me alone.
I loathe with loathing shameless.
These roaches which are to me, nameless. **
I shall prevail.
Because when it comes down to it, not all the unhappy mamas in the world are mamas.
Not all roaches come in the form of insects.
But all women rise up when the domestic peace is disturbed.
Sound the horns. Bring forth the swords.
Change is nigh.
Are you listening ‘Rona?
Are you listening, roaches?
Your time will end.
We will fight.
We will overcome.
Hear the people sing.
Photo by Alex of Unsplash