Killing of Spiders

I wasn’t always afraid.

A rainbow of sunlight caught in the moist spider’s silk. Creatures vulnerable, mysterious, and ancient. Instead of protecting the arachnid’s fragile beauty, I cannot help myself. I wasn’t always afraid of spiders. But now, I panic and involuntarily scream with surprise, then kill them. You’d think they’d be afraid of me, by now, and not the other way around.

How could a giant display aggression towards the tiny and powerless? I could let them squeeze back into the cracks of their lives or shuffle the daddy longlegs outside. But, I continue to crush these creative weaving animals. The legs, so delicate and fine, but carrying something deadly. When the spiders pierce and inject venom into their victims — the wolf, recluse, or grass variations common to interiors — they satisfy themselves without the risk of a struggle.

The eyes, all seeing but not speaking. There are no words in the exchange between us. The powerful yet fearful versus the unwanted intruder. A smack of force. The scuff of tissue.

The distress started in childhood.

I slept alone for the first time in someone else’s spare room at age four. My mom in her room. My twin sister in another room. Me, closest to the street and front of the house.