My sister, the strong, intelligent, homicide detective who works out every single damn day of the week and who wouldn't be caught dead squealing or giggling, is afraid of bugs.
Maybe that's too vague. There are, after all, bugs out there that she has every right to be afraid of. Africanized Bees? Human Bot Flies? Sure. Hell, I think I might even be a little afraid of them, if I sat down to think about it for very long. But a common, brown, two-inch-long house centipede? Come on. They bite, sure, but it's not like they'll kill you.
"Please, Dex, just kill it so I can pee already." My sister is cowering behind my kitchen counter, possibly as far from the bathroom as she could get without actually leaving the apartment. I look over my shoulder at her for a moment before returning my gaze to the insect on my bathroom wall. He is pretty big—biggest one I've ever seen, and I had to help Harry clean out the basement the summer before eighth grade. I approach it. It senses my motions and moves quickly away, its body undulating as each of its legs move in time. Do they actually have a hundred legs, I find myself wondering. Hey, he's definitely big enough that I could probably stand here and count them to find out.
But my little sister is standing behind me, and, if I know her as well as I suspect I do, she's already eying the kitchen sink in lieu of a...well, of a loo.
It's strange. I've killed dozens of people in my life, but far fewer insects. When Deb and I were younger, I think I squished the occasional spider for her on the porch or in her bedroom, but...they were much, much smaller than this fellow here. I'm actually impressed that something so large manages to cling to my wall like that. I wonder if he knows it's coming, as I unroll several lengths of toilet paper off of the roll next to the sink and ball it up. I wonder if he feels his exoskeleton cracking, his legs snapping, as I squish him against the wall. No relief, no insurance of safety, is going to come from the death of this...thing, unless you count Deb's, which I'm sure she does. I inspect the contents of the toilet paper, insure that he is truly dead (he is), and toss the wad into the toilet. I flush, and then exit the bathroom. My sister pushes past me roughly. A cold thank you. I wasn't expecting streamers and trumpets, but a little gratitude might be nice.
"Careful," I call through the bathroom door as it is shut in my face. "If he's not dead, he might crawl back up the pipes and bite you."
"Fuck you, Dexter." But her voice is not quite as strong as I think she thinks it is. I shake my head and get dressed for work. As I'm doing so, I hear the toilet flush. Twice, just in case.
Note: This was my first Dexter fic, and, as such, I realize that it's probably not 100 in-character, or well-written. The opening line (or some version thereof) has been bouncing around in my head ever since the night I went to the bathroom and saw the centipede just chilling there on the wall. Gah. I just wanted to get this out there--after all, there's not enough Dexter love on this site just yet. ;) Let me know how I can improve this, please.