A Loving Sister

I hate spiders with a burning passion.
They disgust me beyond rationality. I was spooked as a little kid when one popped out of the fur of my teddy bear and raced at me like a demented rodent.
My friends have joked I'm a daughter of Athena because spiders seem to seek me out. One time when my sister and I were alone in the house, we spotted a behemoth spider of the tarantula phenotype (spiders have two main body types, which I have accurately termed “tarantula” and “black widow”). Tarantula-bodied spiders are leapers. They're quick and freakish to behold. They have disk-like bodies and powerful legs, as opposed to bulbous, spindly black widow types. I gawked while my sister stood by watching (she has recently come out as a Janist, which explains so much in hindsight) as the spider traversed the walls, scrambling all over the house and continuously crawling just out of reach. Annoyed and stricken by the audacity of such a tiny being (though I assure you, the spider was enormous), I grabbed a tennis ball and started lobbing it in the spider's direction.
Eventually, horror of horrors, the monster made its way into my room. I was forced to relinquish the tennis ball for a heavy-soled shoe (my father's, and my typical spider-smashing mace). Desperate, I bet my sister that if I tried to kill the spider and it attacked me, she would have to kill it for me. She just laughed at my absurdity.
She shouldn't have. I crept toward the spider, cringing, putting one foot in front of the other. I bared the shoe hesitantly, my entire body tight with anticipation. I swung the shoe meekly.
And what do you know. The spider leapt at me, on to me, on to my shirt. I shrieked and my sister rose a hand to her ear. My throat raw and the spider having flown off of my person, I staggered away panting.
“I f***ing told you so,” I rasped. She simply grabbed a glass from downstairs, entered my room, cupped the spider into it, and took it outside.
Some people.