The spider that was killed

I killed a spider two nights ago. It wasn’t too big but it bothered me so I took one of my shoes and smacked the spider with it. There is a nasty stain on the wall, reminding me that I murdered a poor, innocent insect that did nothing to harm me. He was simply a trespasser, an intruder.
I hate bugs, insects, anything that moves. But I like ants, tiny ants that carry food to their homes. Once when I was little, perhaps six or seven I killed a bunch of ants. They were big and they scared me. I never forget that incident. We were at a rented villa in shomal, the north of Tehran, by the Caspian Sea. I was playing on a big balcony where I found lots of big ants moving about. I don’t know what motivated me to kill them. But I did. And the memory haunts me to this day.
Killers go on trial. They stand before a judge and are sentenced either to prison or to death. We are all killers. Nobody is innocent. In this ugly, brutal world of chaos where democracy is too flawed, we all commit sins. Some of us pray for forgiveness. The rest of us die as sinners.
I did not have the right to kill the spider. But because I am selfish I killed him, without hesitation. And I am not going to ask for forgiveness.

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