She sees him, fleetingly, scuttling across her field of vision. Her breath quickens at this, a manifestation of her most primal of fears. The room appears to shrink in size, the monster magnified against the blisteringly white walls. She tries to contain herself, to strangle the shriek even as it explodes from her lungs, trying to resist such a salutation of the beast’s control of her mind.
Desperately, panic stricken she falls backward over herself, once again he has become invisible. She looked away only for an instant, looked away only to catch her breath – time enough for him to disappear. She shudders at the thought of him. Somewhere in the bathroom, hiding, watching her, waiting for his moment. Defiantly she brandishes her weapon, waving the footwear in the face of her foe, begins prodding with her feet towels that have lain crumpled too long, his only refuge.
Again he attempts his escape, again her squeamishness rises up, a tidal force overwhelming reason. He seems to swell in size, threatening, occupying the bathroom. She swings the shoe downward, his evasive maneuvers coming into their own as his instincts kick in. The explosive thud of the thong hitting the ground conjures up a masquerade of bravery overruling her inherit cowardice, as she reaches for her last line of defence. The chemical warfare of a can of hairspray pins him to the ground, his legs frozen, his lungs collapsing.
A dead spider takes over the bathroom sink, and she can no more move him away than she can wash her hands of his memory, the memory of his death at her hands. She can just wash her hands in the kitchen sink, until the geckos carry his corpse away, the undertakers of the insect world.