The Avenue | 2011 (You take my point, of course.) I paused for several long moments at the door, unsure as to my next move. As my eyes swept to my pillows, so deceptively innocent, a bolt of fear shot through me. It was there. Somewhere, deep within this linen jungle, legs rubbing together in maniacal glee, it was there. Watching. Waiting. “Mommy,” I whined toward the hallway, “can I sleep in your room?” Her response was short, swift, and unfit for print. Tired, frustrated, and terrified, I nudged one toe over the threshold, my eyes never leaving my bed. You’re there, I thought. I know you’re there. You have destroyed my sanctuary. You have violated my sacred space. I am tired and you are somewhere in my bed and I want to go to sleep. And so you… you must be destroyed. My overwhelming fear had begun to subside, usurped now by something lower, something baser. A deep, hungry thrill began to rise within me as I stared at the floral pillowcases, a predatory drive thrumming through my blood. This was my territory. And I would reclaim it. Narrowing my eyes and lifting my chin, in a dramatic nod to any number of pretentious film trailers, I vowed to vanquish all that stood before me. I would once more stand victorious within my home base. And I would destroy this spider, my greatest nemesis, even if the endeavor cost me my very life. I turned with great purpose back to the hallway, and, after thumping my head against the doorframe and cursing for the better part of two minutes, made my way downstairs to arm myself for the hunt. ——— First on my list of weapons: an industrial-strength flashlight, a black-
steel-framed juggernaut I would grasp with a grand air of authority and vengeance, sweeping a broad shaft of brilliant light over my stunned, cowering opponent, paralyzed by the light of justice falling upon his evil flesh. We didn’t have one of those, so I improvised with a tiny pocket flashlight I found stuck to a melted Jolly Rancher at the back of our utility drawer. Next: a set of stainless-steel salad tongs that would serve as my hands in my expedition, as the beast stationed within my pillowcase would no doubt devour my own appendages given half the chance. And finally: a sixteen-ounce can of Raid® Wasp & Hornet Killer. Drastic? Heavy-handed? Perhaps. War often is. Now armed, I ascended the stairs and strode towards my bedroom, sweeping the flashlight’s narrow beam over the textured ceiling. Each step I made was careful and deliberate as I continued upon my path, imagining myself as a young Indiana Jones, or possibly Brendan Fraser in The Mummy. With breasts. I dual-wielded the Raid® and salad tongs as I crossed the threshold to my bedroom, my flashlight now secure in my pocket. I knelt upon the far edge of the bed, shifting my weight between my knees to avoid any premature detection of my presence by the enemy. I clacked the tongs together once, twice, and began removing the few linens that I had failed to tear off in my earlier panic. Soon, all that lay before me were several scattered pillows, so still and silent. I knew that somewhere, deep beneath their unassuming surfaces, my enemy lay in wait. I steadied my breathing and clacked my tongs. The first pillow appeared quite innocent and arachnidfree as I lifted it away with a deep, shuddering breath. The second pillow followed suit, as did the third pillow, 11