welp

except I feel like an animal in the corner with blood in my teeth

me at work, stirring an iced mocha: what kind of person do i want to be

TAKE #6

[on the floor, tucked between the couch and the coffee table]

me, to my phone that is also on the floor not three inches from my face: hey google?

my phone: ♫♬♪?

Cocky little bastard. Comes out from underneath the couch if it's night and you haven't moved for a bit. Stands two feet away, under the desk, and stares back at you before it bolts under the TV stand.

I hear it moving a lot lately.

We looked up how to be humane on the internet. We considered methods of catch-and-release. I think you have to take them two miles away so they don't come back.

But mom got rat traps. A couple. And I slowly pass through these areas trying not to look but looking anyway. Waiting for the time I find yet another dead creature.

And I fell asleep the other day - a feat in itself - a feverish two hours. I don't remember most of my dreams but they weren't good. The last one, though, the last one I remember:

Because I was in a room that I knew but didn't - in the way dreams are. And the rat was caught in a trap, broken and breaking but not struggling. Not trying to get out, not trying to move at all. Completely calm and talking to me.

"I don't know how to help you without hurting you," I tried to say.

"It doesn't matter," it said to me in a voice that wasn't a voice, whispery and low and hidden behind my ears.

"But you're caught. Your legs," I tried again.

"Why are you trying," it asked, eyes round and gleaming in the shadows behind the sink.

"Because you're hurting."

"I'm not." It didn't blink, didn't look away.

"I don't understand."

"Do you have to?"

"I want to."

"Why?"

"Because I can't stand seeing someone hurting."

"But I'm not a someone. I'm a rat."

I sat down across from it on the floor. "Everyone's a someone that can hurt."

"But if I don't feel the hurt anymore, does it still count," it closed its eyes, laying down on its two fine front legs.

"It's still there," I said.

It was the color of cinnamon, even in the dark.

i don't want it

i want "survival of the kindest"

"survival of the most compassionate"

i want "survival of what makes us want to care for each other"

survival of family

i try to ask if you want whipped cream on top, but you cut me off (rudely)

i retaliate by cutting you off, asking once again if you would like some whip on top

you look at me without responding, clearly hoping to convey your displeasure and irritation through your silent glare

i reach underneath the counter, maintaining eye contact the entire time, and slam the big metal whip cream canister down next to the register

you are now weirded out, unnerved even, and i still haven't blinked

"Do you?" i dare. my eyes are so wide it looks painful, but i still don't look away.

"Do you?" i repeat. i begin to spray the counter between us with globs of whip. i don't release the trigger.

behind me all the employees begin to chant

"whip whip whip whip--"

the girl working back in the kitchen pokes her head through the doorway slowly, pulls down her mask and mouths exaggeratedly:

i wasn't paying attention, i couldn't afford to

i was charging on through life

i'm talking breakneck speeds all the way

fucking try me, bitch

you don't know how much rage i keep in check