The beetle

I’m a murderer.

He came innocently into my home, announcing his presence with a flourish. He was beautiful, once I got over the shock of seeing him. Big and metallic red. Majestic, really. A god of his kind. But the sound and fury of his entry was like a war cry and I retaliated by grabbing the weapon closest to me. I closed him in the guillotine of my window.

In the morning when I opened it again, he was still alive. He’d endured the night of torture. He stumbled away, his legs and back broken, but made strong by his desire to die in the beauty of nature. He walked to the edge of the sill, hovering over the precipice where he knew he’d meet his death. After a moment, he spread his curved, red wings and fell.