One night in mid summer Maine I got out of bed to use the bathroom.
I was still young enough to wear footy pajamas and they were plastered to me with sweat. The house was dead silent.
Downstairs, a strong, cool air current blew in through the open front door, with the screen door unlocked, buzzing with the wind.
Somehow hundreds of tiny black moths had gotten in and were dizzily wandering over the living room ceiling.
I knew that I had to kill them.
I quickly and quietly got 1 of the farmhouse chairs from the kitchen, set it on the living room floor, and began smashing.
It took maybe 45 minutes. Mission accomplished, I remembered to pee, but not to wash my hands, black with moth goo.
In the morning, I woke in a terror. I had to clean the ceiling before my father saw it and devolved into 1 of his rages.
But, I was the first up and there were no stains on the ceiling, or my hands, or my pajamas, anyway.
The front door was still open, the chair was still in the living room.
The downstairs bathroom was a wreck, oily black stains and dead moths all over.
I cleaned it and made myself breakfast.