I can hear its wings beating as they carry its thick body around my room. Occasionally, it feigns attacking me and pushes me into a corner. It’s laughing at me: the sound of a sadistic bug that enjoys making a man a prisoner in his own living space. I’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes, and I’ve hardly blinked. I’m tired of it. I’m taking my bedroom back. No short cuts, no dishonourable attacks with the vacuum cleaner when its back is turned and no opening the window waiting for it to leave on its own terms, just my bare hands.

I wait until it’s stationary and sitting on my light shade watching me. Then, I attack. In the following assault my room becomes a mess, and it flees in an erratic manner whilst zigzagging around me, but, eventually, I feel its pain when my knuckles blend it with the plaster of my wall.

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