The real challenge wasn’t the centipedes or occasional spiders but living with Jamie, my roommate, whose sullen dislike of anything creepy was a source of constant friction.
Jamie had a quiet authority about complaints—every time I tried to mention letting the bugs be, I got dismissed or met with icy silence.
“Just kill it,” Jamie would say, as if my empathy for these unsettling creatures was childish or strange.
The landlord, on the other hand, shrugged off any requests to fix or clean properly, reinforcing a power imbalance that left me feeling stuck in a place that wasn’t quite mine.
The escalation started subtly: two weeks ago, I let a centipede live after catching it under a glass, showing it to Jamie before releasing it outside.
Jamie rolled eyes; I felt small and unheard.
A week ago, I found another one and hesitated to kill it, and Jamie snapped at me.
Then a few days back, a dead cockroach appeared on the kitchen floor; Jamie blamed me for inviting pests by not killing the ‘harmless ones’.
Just yesterday, I caught myself debating whether to squash another house centipede or not—each time the tension rose.
The landlord finally sent someone to inspect after Jamie threatened to move out if things didn’t improve.
Now, with the pest control appointment confirmed for tomorrow morning, I’m bracing for what’s next.
I’m caught between wanting to protect the centipedes and meet the demands of Jamie and the landlord.
I can’t escape the feeling that this situation is about to get worse, that my quiet resistance to killing the creatures might trigger consequences I haven’t imagined yet.
The apartment feels heavier, the walls seem to close in, and the tiny legs of those crawling horrors seem to echo in my mind, haunting every decision.
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