It was August 2016, my first summer in Japan. I had finished work and was heading home; I was glad to be getting back to my air-conditioned room.
Once I got in, I threw my bag to the ground and sat on the swivel chair. I lifted the lid on my laptop, leaned back and then saw it; a giant cockroach hanging on the wall. My chair thumped the floor as I frantically went for the door handle; I dashed out of the room.
In the hallway, I took a deep breath.
While collecting my thoughts, I saw a small ironing board nestled in the corner; a previous resident had left it. The stifling heat in the hallway had me yearning for my chill room, I exhaled and steely grabbed the board.
A weapon in hand, I cautiously returned to my room; I peeked to see the cockroach perched in the same position. I walked back in slowly.
I stood and looked up at the intruder; it was unfazed by my presence. My grip tightened. I clenched the board with both hands and swung the board at the cockroach as if I were Stone Cold aiming a steel chair at Triple H.
*SMACK!*
I slowly pulled back the board; the wall was clean. I turned over the other side of the board, expecting to find a gooey mess; it was stainless. The S.O.B had escaped.
That night, I plugged the gap in my door with two towels. I couldn’t sleep well, knowing my nemesis was still scurrying about.
The following day, I went over to the chemist to find a bug trap. I stumbled upon a whole section for cockroaches. I looked at a few items before deciding on a powerhouse of a can that had a picture of a cockroach with a large red “X” over it.
Once I returned home, I promptly set up the can and sprayed all over my room, in case the insect decided to return.
Comforted, I browsed my laptop for a few hours until I saw something scurrying above. The ‘roach was back. I darted out of my chair, but I didn’t scramble for the door; I went for the can. I turned back. It had disappeared.
I stepped back. The room was small; there weren't many places for an insect so big to hide. After a minute, I saw a shady figure emerge from under my bed; I pulled down on the trigger and unleashed, the cockroach recoiled and hurried back underneath — not today, bud. I knelt and sprayed that sucker where he hid.
A few moments later, the cockroach hobbled out; its pace had been robbed. As it squirmed on the ground, I hit it with my final shot; the roach turned on to its’ back, its legs flailing, before it finally stopped moving.
I threw a tissue over its lifeless body. Then another one, and another one. Finally, I summoned up the courage to pick up my 15-layer tissue body bag; I galloped to the hallway and chucked the carcass out of the window.
I gleefully turned back; at that moment, my neighbour at the time, a large Swiss man in his late thirties, emerged out of his room. We had only exchanged nods by this point, but I was in enough of a jubilant mood to verbally communicate. I pointed towards the window and mustered out, “Heh, cockroach.”
“Cockroach?!” the Swiss guy darted into his room and emerged with the same type of can I had used.
I replied, “No, it’s done.”
