20: The Dead Rat

One tiny hole, high up on a wall, higher than she could reach, was the only source of light in her cellar.

Her nights were spent sleeping on straw, her days pacing and playing with the rats. The rat were her friends. They had a hole in the skirting board under the stairs that they used to come and go. She gave them tiny scraps of food, and they always came back. They were friendly, too. She would play with them, rolling them onto their backs and tickling them. They seemed to like that.

Once a day, her father would open the door, come down the stairs, and give her food. It was usually a thin porridge, sometimes meat and bread. He usually also brought a pitcher of water. Usually. Sometimes he yelled at her. Sometimes he beat her. Once, when she was very young, he left the door at the top of the stairs open and she tried to run through. He caught her and beat her very badly with a stick. She had never tried it again.

Yesterday when he came down, he saw one of the rats. Usually they ran away when he opened the door, but this time one of them was sitting on her shoulders, playing in her hair. He took his stick and hit it, and her as well. Then he had yelled at her and hit her some more. Then he kicked the water pitcher at her, but it missed and broke into pieces against the wall. The water spilled all over the floor. She would be going thirsty tonight, she thought.

She crawled over to where the rat was lying. It was broken. Its back bent in a place it wasn’t supposed to, and it wasn’t moving. She picked it up and hugged it, and cried.

A little before her tiny window showed the dusk light, there was a terrible amount of noise. Still holding on-to the dead rat, she stood up and strained to see through it. She could hear people shouting, screaming. And occasionally a tremendous roaring noiseShe was startled to see an occasional flame through her window. She could see smoke starting to fill the darkening sky. Once, a great shadow passed across the window.

She didn’t sleep that night.

The next day, her father didn’t come. Nor did he come the day after that. She was very hungry. She asked her friend rats to bring her some food, but they didn’t understand.

That night, desperately hungry and thirsty, and wishing very hard for food, she saw the dead rat move.

The tiny corpse was dry and withered, but it got itself to its feet and staggered across the room, disappearing under the stairs.

She stared, shocked and slightly horrified, and shuffled back to sit against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest.

After a long while it returned, dragging something backwards towards her. She stared at it, fascinated. It didn’t move like a life rat did. The break in its back gave it a curious wobble. She almost started to reach out and touch it, when she realised what it was dragging. It was a chunk of bread.

Voraciously she grabbed it and ate it. It was stale, but after two days with nothing to eat, it was the best thing she had ever put into her mouth.

But it was not enough. When she had grabbed the bread, the dead rat had stopped moving, and just looked like a dead rat again.

She looked at it, and thought “more”.

Again it shuffled off, and again it returned with more bread. Each time she sent it off, it came back with more food. But it was taking longer and longer each time, and she was still very thirsty. So the next time it came back, instead of thinking about food or water – she couldn’t see how it was even possible for the tiny corpse to bring back water – she thought “escape”. It shuffled off.

Some time later she heard a scraping sound coming from the door at the top of the stairs. Elated, she climbed the stairs and listened. The sound of wood scraping against wood continued, then there was a clatter and, for the first time in her life, she was able to push the door open and exit the cellar.

She emerged into a ruin. As far as she could see was burned wreckage. Walls were half-standing where a house once was. Furniture was strewn about. The smell of smoke was overwhelming. She looked up at the night sky and marvelled at the moons, shining silver and gold in the sky.

The rat had pushed the bar back that was holding the door closed, she saw. But in doing so it had broken it-self even more, and now it didn’t look like it could move at all. It twitched a little when she thought at it, but that was all.

She heard a noise – someone was moving around the ruin. Quickly she looked around for a hiding place. Crouching behind half a wall she looked as the man stumbled around a corner and came into the moonlight. It was him. It was her father.

A rage started building inside her. Now that she was free, he would never be able to beat her again. He would never yell at her, or throw things, and he wouldn’t kill her friends.

Three figures rose from the ruin, pieces of wood and stone falling from their wrecked bodies. All of the flesh had been burned from the head of the first, leaving only a fire-blackened skull perched atop a ruined neck. The second’s arm had torn off as it rose. The third was the corpse of a child. All three stank of roasted flesh. They picked up scraps of wood and shuffled towards the man, who screamed.

When they had finished, they fell to the ground, dead flesh once more unmoving. And the girl cried.