I just spent around five minutes killing a pincer bug in my bathroom. I was terrified at the thought of it biting me, of the minute pain that would cause me.
So I grabbed a metal toilet paper holder and tried to smash it. But it got away. I kept on repeating this, but as I held the bug down, trying to kill it, I saw it writhing and shaking in terror. I paused. I felt a pang in my chest.
What gave me the right to brutally kill a creature like that? Where did this entitlement come from? Why did I so thoughtlessly delight in the killing of something so small for a moment of satisfaction?
Why did this small creature’s existence bring upon me so much panic and anger that my immediate thought was to rob it of its life?
And why have my actions brought such spiraling and regret upon me?
Now I am sitting in the bathroom, contemplating my morality and what prompted such senseless aggression.
