THE BIRTHING PLACE

Or how I became a murderer of infants.

You know you have never really lived until you have witnessed a hundred baby spiders come out of a single egg. I should know this because one stormy night, I have killed a huge spider with an insect spray--only to help it deliver its hatched babies.

I do not have a phobia of spiders, but they still creep me out nonetheless. They are hairy, have more than four legs, and their small eyes are always menacing. Some spiders are poisonous, and a single bite can either make you very sick, very dead, or a very lean, spandex-wearing Marvel superhero. The spider I murdered with a can of Baygon was not exactly radioactive. Instead, it was one of those creepy crawlies that carried their little spiders underneath their stomach via a cloth-like egg sac. It was a stormy evening and perhaps the spider, using its maternal instincts, wanted to find a safe shelter for her to hatch her babies--and that secured shelter was my room.

I went inside my room to start working on a project when what greeted me on a wall near my bed was a gigantic, brown spider that had a defensive stance that meant it was not delighted to see me. It was just there quiet yet alive on my wall as if contemplating whether to jump right at my face or simply scare me to death with its long, hairy legs. I stared at it for a few seconds because I felt its dark, beady eyes looking at me, perhaps waiting for me to surrender and give it some personal space.

I calmly scanned my room for a murder weapon but could not find anything because I was not exactly prepared for occasions that would require me to kill a future mother with eight legs. I slowly tiptoed out of my room to retrieve the can of insect spray my family has saved for future cockroach infestations and silently prayed to the chrome yellow walls of the universe to send the spider back to whatever insect hell it came from. However, I came back reassured that the universe does not listen to silent prayers because the spider was still sitting perfectly calm--its brownish hue a complete contrast to the room's fading yellow paint. I pressed the nozzle tip of my chosen weapon and pointed it at the spider, blasting it lavishly with toxic chemicals that promised to murder unwanted visitors with hairy legs.

The insect spray smelled like flowers--the kind of flowers that only grow in petrochemical factories--but it did nothing to give the spider a quick death that I thought it deserved. Instead, it just covered it with white frosting-like material the way a disgruntled barista would put whipped cream haphazardly on coffee. Startled by my failed attempt, the whipped cream started to crawl, which, of course, scared the shit out of me.

I put the nozzle as closely as possible to the creepy crawler and sprayed one more time. The spider, which obviously had a Master's degree in Survival from the University of Petrifying Insects, escaped by dragging its insect spray-covered body away from me. Frustrated at my failed attempts, and at the same time scared that the critter would exact its revenge on me, I hurled the insect spray can at the spider. Unfortunately, I only managed to hit two of its limbs, so the spider, sans its two legs, creepily crawled higher on the wall away from the batshit crazy human with the very poor aim.

I threw the can at the insect again. It hit the spider in the head, and the poor thing fell on the floor lifeless. I thought it was the end of my misery, but only to find out that the nightmare has just started. Little spiders came out of its sac and crawled threateningly on the floor to the walls, bringing to mind that scene from the second Harry Potter film where Harry and Ron were being chased by wizard-eating arachnids that can alarmingly speak with a thick, British accent. The sight of tiny spiders scrabbling their way out of their dead mother's sac was scary, and in a weird way, quite endearing.

The cute infant spiders scampered aimlessly on my floor and walls away from the carcass of their murdered mother. I felt a bit sad for them knowing that I was the heartless killer who turned them into instant orphans. If only the little critters would not grow up and turn themselves into eight-legged monsters, I would have spared them their lives and let them pursue their spider dreams. However, I had no choice but to kill them. One by one, I murdered the babies by crushing them with my hands I have covered in wet wipes. The spider babies were quick for infant monsters. Some of them have managed to escape from my killing spree. Admitting my defeat, I watched them crawl as fast as their minute legs would allow them into the dark corners of my room.

Glasses fogged, shirt soaked in sweat, and severely suffocating from insect spray, I sat on my bed and felt a little guilty about killing a new mom and most of its children. I imagined those that have eluded me would grow up into hairy-legged critters, convening once a week in a dimly-lit cave somewhere in England to discuss their elaborate, vengeful plans over tea and scones.