"I was their mouse. But not actually their mouse. The tunnels and old droppings where I lived said there'd been a real mouse there before, but it was a long time ago. I lived alone. Whatever seasonal pests came in, they always left. Then I heard something moving in the dark. It clawed through the old tunnels the other mouse had left behind. I had to stay awake at night and listen. It rustled past as it paced inside the wall and out. One night the mouse might crawl into my den and sink its teeth into me in the dark.
"Every morning, after they were both gone and the mouse's pacing stopped, I left my den. I went out in the corners, and I climbed into the cabinets. The mouse went everywhere. They might notice it. They might notice me; I had to hide it as much as I could. The droppings it left were bigger than three together of the old ones, the ones I kept finding in my den no matter how many I cleared out. I thought the sound of movement in the walls would get their attention someday, but their hearing was duller than mine. I was always listening.
"Every time I didn't hear it moving for a while, I hoped it might have left, or died. Then I'd leave to forage in the dining room and I'd find its damp droppings outside my den. Or see a bit of white fur snagged in the splintered wall. Once, I heard nothing for almost four weeks. When I stepped out of my den, I just missed stepping on a tail as it snaked past.
"They had people over every week for dinner or Sunday lunch. When it was just the two of them, their voices shook the walls. My bones trembled when there were seven or eight more. I knew they were coming home on Sundays because I heard their songs. From far away, it was beautiful. Inside, their voices pounded against me.
"Then it stopped. The voices, the people, the water in the pitchers, all gone. It was always cold outside, and the wind was fast. The walls seeped moisture; no place in them was ever dry. Winter there was even worse. They left behind no fire in the massive hearth. No water. No stew or fatty meat or crunchy greens. The house grew colder and colder. How did they get water, or make fire? I didn't know. How did they keep warm? I had clothes I stole from them, but it wasn't enough. They had clothes, and fire, and each other.
"Me, I had the mouse.
"I ate wood shavings, ate cloth. I tried to repair the chew marks the mouse left on their shoes. They didn't take everything. They left behind everything that wouldn't spoil, so they'd return. They'd come back. They had to come back.
"They did come back. I heard the songs of praise for the fields and the men who worked them from far, far away. When they returned and threw another Sunday meal, even the volume of their songs couldn't keep me from hiding so close. During dinner, I stood in the shadow of a table leg. I watched the food that fell and the feet that kicked and moved over it. I had to eat. Someone dropped a piece of meat. When I was almost sure they weren't looking, I fell upon it. Salt stung my cracked lips. The grease coated my face. It was the best meal I'd ever had.
(This story first appeared in volume 14 of Bridgewater State University's creative journal, The Bridge.)
"Every morning, after they were both gone and the mouse's pacing stopped, I left my den. I went out in the corners, and I climbed into the cabinets. The mouse went everywhere. They might notice it. They might notice me; I had to hide it as much as I could. The droppings it left were bigger than three together of the old ones, the ones I kept finding in my den no matter how many I cleared out. I thought the sound of movement in the walls would get their attention someday, but their hearing was duller than mine. I was always listening.
"Every time I didn't hear it moving for a while, I hoped it might have left, or died. Then I'd leave to forage in the dining room and I'd find its damp droppings outside my den. Or see a bit of white fur snagged in the splintered wall. Once, I heard nothing for almost four weeks. When I stepped out of my den, I just missed stepping on a tail as it snaked past.
"They had people over every week for dinner or Sunday lunch. When it was just the two of them, their voices shook the walls. My bones trembled when there were seven or eight more. I knew they were coming home on Sundays because I heard their songs. From far away, it was beautiful. Inside, their voices pounded against me.
"Then it stopped. The voices, the people, the water in the pitchers, all gone. It was always cold outside, and the wind was fast. The walls seeped moisture; no place in them was ever dry. Winter there was even worse. They left behind no fire in the massive hearth. No water. No stew or fatty meat or crunchy greens. The house grew colder and colder. How did they get water, or make fire? I didn't know. How did they keep warm? I had clothes I stole from them, but it wasn't enough. They had clothes, and fire, and each other.
"Me, I had the mouse.
"I ate wood shavings, ate cloth. I tried to repair the chew marks the mouse left on their shoes. They didn't take everything. They left behind everything that wouldn't spoil, so they'd return. They'd come back. They had to come back.
"They did come back. I heard the songs of praise for the fields and the men who worked them from far, far away. When they returned and threw another Sunday meal, even the volume of their songs couldn't keep me from hiding so close. During dinner, I stood in the shadow of a table leg. I watched the food that fell and the feet that kicked and moved over it. I had to eat. Someone dropped a piece of meat. When I was almost sure they weren't looking, I fell upon it. Salt stung my cracked lips. The grease coated my face. It was the best meal I'd ever had.
(This story first appeared in volume 14 of Bridgewater State University's creative journal, The Bridge.)
Who is she speaking to? INQUIRING MINDS MUST KNOW.
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