Last Thursday’s Writing Essential’s challenge was to write about what makes you squeamish. If my story makes you squeamish, I want to know all about it.
Beer, the wonderful liquid that kills my pain can be a pain. Middle of night and bladder complaining. Time to get up, take a whiz and wash my hands; always hoping I’ll stay half asleep. Not that night.
I guess everyone has issues with things that go bump in the night. Light turned on, body bumping into walls due to half closed eyes, hoping that whizzing and washing wouldn’t fully wake me, I turned on the faucet. When the centipede crawled out of the drain and I screamed… well I was fully awake.
The only thing handy was an empty beer can on the sink counter. I tried to behead it, but those devils are hard to kill. It ran back down. So I plugged the drain, determined to get some sleep.
No go. There was another one on the wall, directly above where my head would have been resting. Did I mention that centipedes were hard to kill? Needing a hammer, to the garage I went. Knocked a hole in the wall, but I killed that evil creature.
Desperately needing sleep, I climbed under covers, wiggled a lot (I’m a wiggler) and finally dozed off, only to be woken by a burning sensation in a rather delicate part of my leg.
Yep. I slept with a centipede.
Drather sleep with a centipede than a scorpion—done that way too many times.