It was but a mellow Sunday evening, scented with the familiarity that lingers after a typically tumultuous week.

My nephew and I were indulging in the peak of the evening, rummaging through any energy stores we had left , depleting all that remained after a predictably draining seven days, that of which we were both accustomed.

As I tickled him senseless, I found myself frozen in a moment of involuntary captivity. Fixated on this vision of terror I refrained from movement, allowing my body to succumb to the wave of fear that has swept me out of my generic Sunday evening.

Eight legs, eight eccentric eyes and a focused, fixated gaze.

I was so grossed out.

There, perfectly poised to strike, was a spider hanging upside down staring directly into my soul.

Observing it’s intimidating elegance, I resolved.

No innocence could be found in it’s posture.

While carrying my nephew, I retreated to a safe haven with feverish haste.

I had surrendered.

Accepting defeat, I left, riddled with feelings of pity and punished pride following me out the door.