The Cry of the Rodents

The Cry of the Rodents

The screen door opened with a whimper, a high screech filled with anticipation and not a little loneliness. The man busy at his table glimpsed at the perfect right angle and saw a stranger in his house. He knew why the stranger happened upon this city, the road, this house, but kept it to himself for the time being. A gentle motion to an empty chair was suffice for a greeting, for a pleasantry. A nod to the tea kettle, hot liquid in small cup, fingers inadvertently mingling over the pass, eye contact half-made and above all: clearing of throats. Let the mucous in and out, swallow the tea, grab at the meager bread on the table (crumbs really) before the rats get to it, their teeth glistening, their mammalian senses whirling in overdrive, their tails flickering like the fire the man was busy tending for this unexpected visitor who finally arrived after all these days, all these nights and was the wait worth it? The flames burnt tender wood, kindling saved up for weeks during this rainy season, saved for this. There will be no need for logs again. There will be no need for crumbs on the other hand, as the rats made their way through the dark and into the night, which is where they found the man. Mouth agape, eyes a blank canvas and skin the paint. The rats gaining in numbers, gaining in weight, as the man lost his. As the man lost an eye; as the man lost a foot; the rats gained a meal. The night’s tea overcome with rebellious warriors in fur coats of their own making. The cry of the rodents will be the last thing you hear, the only thing you hear…