I have too many legs to count.
Even though I'm small, the monsters in this house fear me.
And they kill me. Every time.
My siblings—crushed, swatted, sprayed—one by one.
So I learned.
I move through darkness, beneath the walls, where light can't find me. I curl into corners and wait. Quiet. Patient.
I feed on the weak—those smaller than me. My bite is swift.
They call it venom.
They call me disgusting.
But it's my nature.
The same thing that helps me live is the reason I'm hated.
Why is survival always a curse?
Why must I be punished for the body I was born with?