The

Centipede
 WHEN I saw my sister, Delia, beating my dog with a
stick, I felt hate heave like a caged, angry beast in my
chest. My sister was the meanest creature I knew. She
was eight when I was born, the day my mother died.
 I squatted to look at the reptile. Its antennae
quivered searching the tense afternoon air. I picked up a
silver of wood and prodded the centipede. It uncoiled
viciously. It pinchers slashed at the tiny spear. I stuck the
silver into the carapace of the centipede. It went through
the flesh under the red armor, a whitish liquid oozed out.
Then I made sure it was dead by brushing its antennae.
The centipede did not move. I wrapped it in a
handkerchief.
 My sister was enthroned in a large chair in the
porch of the house. Her back was turned away from the
door; she sat facing the window. She was embroidering a
strip of white cloth. I went near, I stood behind her chair.
She was not aware of my presence. I unwrapped the
centipede. I threw it on her lap.
 My sister shrieked and the strip of white sheet flew off
like an unhanded hawk. She shot up from her chair,
turned around and she saw me but she collapsed again
to her chair clutching her breast, doubled up with pain.
The centipede had fallen to the floor.
 My sister did not move. I held the centipede before her
like a hunter displaying the tail of a deer, save that the
centipede felt thorny in my hand.