It's coming. I can hear it. Softly, stealthily, making it's way toward me. And I wait.

I try not to breathe. It likes it when I breathe. It can find me, when I breathe. So I hold my breath, let it out through my nose, and wait for agonizing airless moments until I breathe again. The darkness of the night hides it, but I can hear it. Dogs barking in the distance distract me and it strikes.

I was waiting. That tell-tale prickling of the skin, the little sting. My hand is a black-belt at Mos Kwee Djo, the art of mosquito killing. Within moments, all that is left of the little black creature is an unsightly black mark on my arm. It never saw me coming. And it didn't have ears to hear.

But a thought hits me as I lie awake at night, waiting for the sly little buggers to come, to settle unsuspectingly on what must to them be like a chocolate fountain the size of a small country: is this murder? 

We don't die from mosquito bites. Well, unless they are disease carriers, and even then, it's not the bite but the laying of eggs that is the problem. But your everyday, just-out-for-some-fast-food mosquito is no killer. All that we suffer is maybe a day or so of itchiness, and an annoying red mark.

No, they are not killers. I, however, lie awake at night thinking up strategies for multiple killings, and waiting for that perfect moment to get that unsuspecting creature in my clutches. There are many ways to do it:

A simple slap usually does the trick, but can start to hurt if you do it too many times.
Slamming them against a wall is my next step. But that leaves ugly marks that are a mission to clean.
Waiting for it to land on your skin and then pulling the skin so that they are trapped, and can't pull out, eventually exploding from over-indulgence doesn't stop them biting you.
And snatching them out of the air is an art that takes some time to master (but is surprisingly gratifying when you get it right).

Planning. That's all it takes. And patience. Choosing your prey too - the bigger ones, fat with blood, are much more fun to kill than the half-starved skinny little grey ones.

And the satisfaction gleaned from massacring innocent creatures that are simply trying to survive is horrifyingly nice. If you're the non-violent type, mosquito coils and mozzie machines either kill them with poisonous fumes or attract them to violently dangerous bug zappers. But you're still killing them.

They're still defenceless. It's still murder. So what then? Do we let these creepy little things suck our blood forever, instead of slapping them when they try to?

It's a lot harder to stop killing them than it would seem. Reflexes have taught me to slap any little tingle or itch I feel before scratching it. But I'm trying. Really, really hard. It's not their fault they are freaky little bloodsucking monsters.