Frantic Flying Beings

Whilst I sat there in the serenity of three o'clock in the morning in my study, I opened a new word document only to find that I had an unwelcome visitor. A large, frantic moth flew in at a rapid speed and began to bang its body furiously around the four walls that I had, prior to this drastic event, deemed my very sanctity.

This frantic being had invaded my very peace, and demanded I give it my undying attention by making vibrating noises with its wings so loud that it even woke my poor parrot. At that moment in time, one thing immediately found itself alerting my mind to take action - bug spray. I decided that with great haste, I would leave the study, shut the door and find the bug spray. And as if to challenge me, the moth had landed itself in a confronting manner on my bookshelf. It stared at me upside down, in an intimidating manner. I simply turned away, sealed the door shut, and made my way to the kitchen.

Alas, there was the bug spray - a shiny, glimmery golden aerosol can containing the very poison that would ensure this creature's very death and my very relief. I took it in my grasp - 'one hit kill', 'no odor' and 'kills' and 'moths' were amongst the other very promising things on the can. I held it in the right manner, in preparation of this human verses insect duel - my index finger on the comfortably molded plastic head on top and the rest of my hand's members gripped with adequate strength around the canister. I then headed back to the study, and opened the door slowly, keeping my sight on the last place I sighted the moth, and there it remained and patiently waited.

I creeped slowly in its direction, my hand holding the bug spray outstretched, pointing right at it. It did not move. It did not flinch. It sat there, seemingly awaiting its early demise. I pressed my index finger down on the cap, firmly, taking a step closer in the moth's direction each second that the poison was being sprayed. Unfortunately, the sound that the bug spray made when I pressed the cap down was faster than the speed of the poisonous mist, and the poisonous mist was no match for the moth and its reflex skills - or so it seemed. Slowly but surely, the moth was dying - or so it seemed. It was, rather, suffocating in the way an asthma victim would if they were on a fast merry-go-round. Now, rather than frantically hitting into the walls, the moth began to break dance - or so it seemed. It flapped itself all around the floor, unexpectedly taking a liking to remaining beneath my sister's computer chair, who is afraid of moths, and who, luckily, was sound asleep in her room.

I knew that that one spray was not yet enough to phone the grave digger of the insect world and inform them to dig another grave. So I aimed at the mouth everywhere it slowed its newfound dancing skills, and sprayed it some more. It really seemed to be challenging me. Six long sprays later, and three dance-offs, the moth lay perfectly dead on its back - or so it seemed. I spray it one last time to make sure it did not move, and it was dead - or so it seemed. I made my way outside to soothe my parrot back to sleep, and heard a vibrating sound coming from inside.

Could it be? I turned around, entered the study again, and looked in the corner where the supposed dead moth lay. It was on its feet again, flapping its wings whilst on the floor, facing the wood panel of my desk and head-butting it while it flapped, scraping itself along the wood, left to right. I stood there dazed, probably because of the so-called 'odorless' smell. I did not know what else I could do. Well, I did, but I did not want to do it.

My plan this time was to stop spraying bug spray - obviously, this moth is a strong contender. Instead, I planned to trap the moth beneath the steel bin I have under my desk. But I did not. I thought about underestimating the length in the area beneath the bin and thought about the disgusting feeling that would pulsate to my fingertips if the moth was crushed. I would not be able to handle the crunchy feeling. I decided instead to stand there and stare at it for a while longer. I then left the room, shut the door, and headed to my bedroom.

I have chosen to let the mouth take its fate into its own little hairy hands and antennae. I hope that when I wake up tomorrow, my sister does not slaughter me with deafening cries because of the fact that I let it die - or live - underneath her computer chair.