Remember me skulking into the kitchen like a cat. Laying out some offering on the tiled floor at your feet. Just anecdote or whimsy. Nothing that really mattered, but at they same time they mattered to me. You would look a little bewildered. Peering down at the mouse I’d so lovingly broken the neck of and laid at your feet.
Did you notice the detail? The inscisors slightly visible on a clenched lip. The trickle of blood so perfectlly formed. The facial expression stripped of life energy. I laid at your feet, a broken thing, having given up the good fight and accepted the inevitable.
You looked at me for a while as though I were a sweet, charming thing. A cute destraction. You feigned appreciation for the raw, rodent suppers I carefully prepared.
When I wasn’t looking you picked up the mouse by its tail, holding it away from you between thumb and index finger. No burial for the broken mouse, just a dustbin that smelt of cigarette ash and the urine of drunks.
When I returned I saw the empty spot on the tiled floor. The perfect trickle of blood by itself.
But you had thrown away all that I’d given you. You had crunched my vertebrate and left me broken. And still you looked bewildered. As though I shouldn’t have cared so much about a dead mouse, or bats in the attic, or fucking dime bars.
…The sound of your voice is distant now, still unsettling hairs on the back of my neck. I’ve stopped seeing your face. It’s just a disappointed smudge in the room.