“Yes.” I said, “really.”
“Did you kill it?”
“Of course.” I said. “I couldn’t allow it to LIVE, and probably sting me later.”
The truth is that it was a very small scorpion, sand-colored. I entered the room and we looked at each other for a while, neither sure what to do. I don’t like killing things unnecessarily, but as I looked at that stinger waving in the air, I thought it best to stomp on it a few times. It’s not like I could pick it up and escort it outside.
By the time I went to bed, ants were surrounding it, and by morning it was gone completely. No trace of the corpse remained. I know that I killed it good and dead, though, so I was forced to conclude that nature is weird. Either the ants or something else carried it off. There is definitely a mouse that shares my room with me, so perhaps it was she that ate the scorpion. I don’t know, but I know that I’m feeling all brave since I returned. Last night I actually – get this – went to the latrine in the middle of the night. That, my friends, is progress. When I arrived, I could barely go to the latrine at 8 p.m. when someone had just been in there, let alone 2 a.m. all alone.
And I killed a scorpion. Without screaming for help.
(An overexposed photo of my dead scorpion.)