The Cockroach

It was a close call, but I made it. They nearly crushed me flat with a book and then, if that wasn't enough, they tried to gas me to death. But, I scurried up and out of sight, into the safety of my crack in the wall.

It's nice to be in here, safe, and warm, amidst my small collection of scraps and crumbs, dragged from the trash and pantries, collected over days of scavenging. Everyday I scuttle out to the human's abode, and I gorge myself silly, and drag the rest back. I couldn't ask for a more happy life. I get to eat myself silly, and then, when they come in, screaming and shrieking, I can just run. I can just run away from them all, and they can't touch me, not as long as I stay in this crack in the wall.

Some days, however, I think about those who were not so lucky. Five thousand of my little brothers and sisters, all killed during the time of the great bug bomb. I was eating at the time when it happened. They were just children. We all were. But that doesn't seem to phase me, as much, any more. I absorb my time in eating. Scuttling, scavenging and eating. I don't have to do a damn thing for it all.

Butterflies go by, and for all their glitz and glamour, they have to work hard, flapping those wings, to even get close to a mouthful of nectar to survive, and with Spiders about, they often just perish.

Ants work themselves to death, day in and day out, from rise to fall, they work, and work, and work, and work, and they get only crumbs, equally shared among all their fellow colony.

That's not for me, no way. All I have to do is just walk along, grab whatever I want and I get to feed my face until I'm stuffed. Then, I grab some more, for later of course, when I don't want to walk out there. Some days can be scarier than others though, and I've had a few close shaves in the past but, I don't care.

I don't care that all I do is just sit around and eat and grab my hand outs. I just eat till I'm tired and I sleep, and wake up and repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Everyday, steal, eat, sleep.

Steal.

Eat.

Sleep.

Everyday, sometimes not even steal.

I don't know what else I can do really. Don't know what else I'm good at doing. All I know is I'm good at what I do, which is basically nothing. But it works for me, so I suppose why stop there.

I could just stop, but then I'd be dead. And that's not good.

I've stared down the humans before. The prospect of being crushed to death isn't exactly a cheerful one...

Though some days I'm curious to see if they don't miss. I run and dodge as fast as I can of course. But I still wait to see if it happens. If something. Happens.

Something new to happen.

God it's all pathetic. A Cockroach, living alone in the crack in the wall, feasting all he can on the food handed out freely to him, and doing nothing with its life, but hiding in that damned hole. And now. Now

Now it's feeling sorry for itself.

I'm being pathetic...

If I really wanted to stop it all I could just stand there and let it happen. Let them crush me dead. Let them spray me until I choke and die.

But I don't. I'm terrified. I don't want to die.

But I can't call this, living. It's just, existing.

Steal.

Eat.

Sleep.

Steal.

Eat.

Sleep.

I just exist solely off of the lives of others and do nothing with mine. Yet I refuse to die. Yet I refuse to live.

I'm just a Cockroach. I live the life of luxury. I am pampered and yet.

And yet.

I live no life of my own.

I live no life.

No Life.