My descent started merely on that one, small night.
Bearing an empty stomach, I carried myself to the kitchen, scurrying through the cabinets in search of the cereal and the milk. Box in hand, I turned around only to find a cockroach on the wall opposite of me, looming over the kitchen sink.
Fear gripped me. My hesitation at immediate action was due to my inexperience with confrontation, let alone with other people in general. Hands shaking, I took hold of the bug spray and dispelled half of its contents on the creature, the insect meeting the ground with a slap, squirming in pain until its last breaths. My heart beat at a speed I could not bear. It was my first kill, and my hands were trembling.
In that same month, another cockroach appeared in the kitchen amidst one of my scavenges. This time, I killed it, still with fear in my hands, but with less restraint.
Weekly, the cockroaches came, and I killed every single one of them. Day in, day night, the ritual act devolved into a chore.
As I broomed the body out of the door, I looked at its lifeless corpse. It was then that I had an epiphany. This creature hadn't meant any harm, for its only purpose was to find food for itself, a purpose that was free of malice. These cockroaches weren't the monsters in this story, nor was it the ungodly entity that sent them to this household. The real monster wasn't any of them-
It was me.
tl;dr - I don't like cockroaches
