Killing Things

After Saturday's outing to the local church, the boy brought a heavy-looking, black book to me. This, bibble, he said. (I had left mine in England.) A few days later, I was sitting in my room when I heard something walk in under the door (there's a large gap). It was an enormous ant. I'm not usually bothered by insects, but when they're so big that you hear them before seeing them, I'd rather they're not in my room; also, I had been told a horrible story by an English boy who'd been bitten by one of these ants, and I wanted it gone. I looked at the mosquito spray next to my bed, but I couldn't bear the thought of the thing writhing around on the floor squealing in pain. Then I noticed the bible.

Two days later, I was sitting in the office, and there was a mosquito buzzing round my head. I caught it in my hand, squashing it, and all of its previous victim's blood in my palm. This might be the most unpleasant thing that's happened to me here. I must have looked unhappy, because when I returned from the toilets after washing my hands, one of the office girls said, I have seen you look your face when you kill the mosquito, you have to vomit, isn't it?

I'm sure it's a terrible thing to use a bible to kill things, and I feel sorry about this. I'm not usually a fan of killing anything, but with everything determined to bite me, and suck my blood, my only options are to fight back or be a victim.