Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Cycles


Seven mice lived in the stove.The flat was very old. The lead paint on the walls covered up crime scenes; ghost stories from the '60's.The kitchen floor had curled up yellowish-brown edges, resembling fly traps without the flies. We lived like teenagers as adults, caring for two chihuahua terriers that crapped on the floors. ( I'd stepped in it barefoot when I was sober.) We thrived on a diet of Carlo Rossi and ramen, played Tetris on the weekdays and drank to death on the weekends. We were old enough, but too young to take responsibility, and too hungover to remember the previous day and our drunken convictions. Everyone in the flat was afraid of mice, except for me.I laid out the glue traps.When they were caught, usually with their guts ripped out along with their legs, I threw them out of the back  window.They squeaked and struggled as I released them into our wild, towards their destiny.

          -Bex

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