Wet cloth drapes my arms, waiting to be hung to dry. I change the wash, my mind elsewhere as I perform the menial chore. A slight sound pulls me from my thoughts. A squeak, a scurry of tiny feet, my body jumps from its skin in unpleasant surprise. My gaze darts to the corner of the basement, my heart pounding as my eyes try to peer through the dim light. I make out the old toilet that hasn't been used in years, the twenty pound bag half-full of stale rabbit food (was there always so much food spilled on the floor?), and a brown paper sack that has who-knows-what in it. But no sign of the source of the noise. I stand still and listen, ignoring the blaring of the radio.

There. I hear the slight scurrying again, and though I don't see the life form, I determine that it is coming from that corner. Keeping a wary eye in that direction and, trying to suppress a shiver whenever the sound repeats, I quickly finish the wash and high-tail it upstairs. Frantic and frightened of the implications of the sound, I pull on a coat and drive to the grocery.

My heart slows its reckless pulsing as I arrive. Purchasing two inhumane snapping traps, a few slices of cheese, and a box of mouse poison for good measure, I return home, comforted in the delusion of man's snares pitted and winning against a mouse's intelligence. I play with the spring trap for a few minutes, trying to figure out how to set it without snapping my own fingers off. Concentrating on the task, I learn the trick to propping the spring down and placing the bait.

Armed with the two traps and the small box of poison, I work up the nerve to go back downstairs. I stamp my feet against the floor and turn the radio up loud, hoping to scare the mouse away. I listen, and no sound of tiny feet reaches my ears. I place the traps around the toilet on top of the spilled food, and the poison next to the bag. I change the wash once more, but catch neither sight nor sound of my prey. A tendril of doubt slips through my mind. Did I really hear anything? Am I just being paranoid? I go to bed troubled, traces of adrenaline still tainting my blood.

I wake up late in the morning, and wearily drag myself from sleep. I start to make breakfast, but I cannot focus. I give in to the imploring, abnormal desire to find out what happened. Going downstairs once more, I flip on the light to see what my snares have caught. One of the traps has sprung, and a small mouse lies dead on its side. Nausea turns my stomach and I put another load in the washer, adverting my eyes from the scene of the death. The inane hope latches onto my mind: If I don't see it, it didn't happen. I go back upstairs with the clean clothes and finish making my breakfast. I try to eat, but my mouth refuses to swallow and my stomach thrashes at the idea of digesting. My thoughts drift back to the image of the tiny body lying on its side, its life spark taken by my hand.

I am no stranger to death. I had several rabbits once. They all died, one by one. Not because of me! They died of wool block... cats cough up hairballs, rabbits die of them. When they died, I found them lying on their side, just like I found the mouse. The food they didn't live to eat was what lured the mouse to its doom. I cried when my rabbits died, but no tears graced my face when I discovered the mouse. Yet another dark spot on my soul.

I go to my bedroom and lie down, my heart heavy with the proverbial blood staining my hands. The guilt smothers me, as if trying to kill me in revenge. I can barely breathe; I drown in the sin I committed willingly. Why, oh why didn't I spend the extra money to buy a humane mousetrap? That's what I did two years ago, when I saw a mouse in my bedroom. Why did I have to kill it? Images of the cute mice from the animated Cinderella flash through my head and the weight grows heavier. I am the lowest of the low. I am a murderer.

A ray of light shines into my realm of depression. A rumbling mass of white fur climbs onto my stomach and sprawls across it, while a second fur-ball, this time black, curls into the niche my arm forms. The dual purring vibrates into me, banishing the overwhelming guilt and replacing it with understanding. Forgiveness. My cats love me; they don't despise me for the heartless slaying. Animals, cats in particular, don't grant their love to undeserving humans. Perhaps I'm not such a horrible person after all.

I spend the day avoiding the basement. I don't want to go back down while the dead mouse is still there. I don't know why I stay away. When one of my rabbits gave birth, several were stillborn. I was the one to put on gloves and take them from their mother's cage, placing them in a shoebox for later burial. After the makeshift funeral, I confined myself to my room and cried. The mouse is around the same size as the baby rabbits had been. If I could steel myself to touch the rabbit corpses and place them in a box, why couldn't I make myself grasp the trap and toss it, mouse included, in the trash? Same way you take off a Band-Aid: fast and without thinking, to get through the pain as quick as possible. But something keeps me away.

Never have I wanted a little brother more. He wouldn't be afraid to touch it. He'd probably think the dead mouse was cool.

That evening I finally go back downstairs. I need the clothes clean, but the moment I turn on the light my gaze goes unbidden to the traps. The light is small and only dimly lights the room, but I can see well enough. The second has sprung; a second corpse lies inside it.

I change the wash, forbidding myself to glance that way again. I feel worse. Not because there are now two deaths on my hands, but because this may be only the beginning. One mouse could have been a fluke. If I was able to catch two mice within a day, there are probably more. What hurts me is that I'm already thinking of buying more traps to set. The inhumane kind. What kind of person doesn't feel enough remorse over their actions to alter their behavior when given a chance?

What kind of person does that make me?

~end~