Oh no.

Oh no no no.

Is that…yep, it is.

A moth. Right on the door frame. It might not notice me, but I notice it (or him? her? What pronouns are appropriate for little wads of cotton-eating annoyance?)

I stand up. I am alone in the bathroom where the moth rests. I mean, it would be really awkward if I was not alone in the bathroom, but that is irrelevant for the given situation. More importantly, everyone is asleep, so I cannot drag anyone else into the bathroom and make them smack the thing. I have to be a big kid and kill the thing myself.

A note about me–I hate summer. It brings heat and allergies and the stores that turn their air conditioning to about 0 Kelvin because apparently, maintaining a normal temperature in a store while it’s 100 degrees Fahrenheit outside is simply impossible. And summer brings insects.

I especially hate insects.

I hate anything and everything which enters the house without permission. I hate anything with more than four legs or fewer than two. I hate killing bugs because it stresses me out and tenses me up for an hour. And once I start killing them, I am very, very determined to finish the job and make sure the dratted creature’s family rues the day said creature stumbled across Erin Sheffield, insect killer.

I suck in a breath. A silence filled with hatred and determination swells in the air. Slowly, surely, I open the door and squeeze through.

Did it stay in the bathroom?

I do not see any moths outside the bathroom…

Safe! I close the door quickly.

On light feet, I scamper to the kitchen. That is where the fly swatter is supposed to be, but I cannot find it. Where is the fly swatter? I pace in tight circles around the kitchen, heart racing. I am not going to kill this moth with a tissue. I need the swatter if I am to rid the world of this moth. Whereistheflyswatterwhereistheflyswatterwhereistheflyswa-oh, there it is. It must have fallen off its place on the fridge and gotten kicked under.

All right. The insect assassin has her weapon. I clutch it in a tight white fist, positioned in a focused battle stance in case another moth flits by. I pitter patter down the hall, walking on the sides of my feet to be quiet.

The door is closed. If I open it, the moth (assuming it is still on the door frame) could fly out into my face. But there is no other way to kill it. My grip on the swatter tightens. My eyes narrow. Sweat tickles my face as it rolls down my hairline.

One.

Two.

Three.

Open the door, Erin.

(I do not open the door.)

All right. Take two. I clutch the door handle, ready to slip inside. A deep breath, iiiiiiiiiinnnnnn and ooooouuuuuttttt, and I count again.

One.

Two.

Three.

I shove the door open, slip inside, and close it as quickly and quietly as I can.

Ha! The moth hasn’t flinched. It stays right where I left it on the door frame. An easy kill. It faces the ceiling, so it can’t see me. It’s on a fairly flat surface. I aim, one eye closed, and smack! 

A frenzy commences.

It’s as if the swat was the opening gunshot to a race. It was the shot heard ’round the house, and the battle of moth versus bug murderer begins. It darts around. It slaps into my nose, does a 180 and dives headfirst into the mirror. I squeak and squeal, wildly whipping the swatter around with eyes closed. It lands on a light bulb. I try to smack it. It escapes. It lands behind a basket. I nudge it out. It lands on the faucets, in corners, on the door handle, every possible spot where swatting is impossible.

And finally, it settles behind the faucet on the counter. Though tough to reach, it’s a flat surface.

I suck in a breath. So far, it’s about 10 attempted kills and 0 successful ones. Erin Sheffield, insect killer, is not living up to her title.

My brother and father can aim a virtual gun on a tiny screen and get a headshot when the head is smaller than my thumb. Why couldn’t I have gotten their aim? I curse my inability and ready my weapon. Eyes wide with delirium, I smack. 

The swatter hits its target. The moth is overturned, but its wing twitches, and it looks like it’s about to fly away again. Crazed and anxious, I smack it again and again.

“I’m-” (smack) “not-” (smack) “going-” (smack) “to-” (smack) “do-” (smack) “this-” (smack) “anymore!” I hiss. “Just-” (smack) “die!” (smack smack smack)

Success! I scoop up the body triumphantly and drop it into the toilet bowl. As I flush, the body swirls around and disappears, never to be seen again.

Another victory for Erin Sheffield, insect killer. It was hard-earned, and the technique wasn’t particularly polished, but the moth is suffering from a chronic and severe case of deadness.

I walk across the hall to my bedroom. In the Great Battle of Moth, I had forgotten to restart my music, which had been playing before the fighting commenced. And right as I turn up the volume to a touch of Radiohead, I spot it in the corner.

A wad of black body and legs hiding in the carpet of my bedroom.

A spider.

After just a few minutes, it’s time for another adventure with Erin Sheffield, insect killer.