Stomping on Rodents

I'm sitting in a bedroom with another person. We're talking about trivial matters, just passing time, when we here a stampede of tiny, clawed feet scampering in the hall. The door is open and we watch twenty or thirty mice run by, all different sizes and colors. Browns, greys, whites, blacks. I run out into the hall to stomp on them.

The mice are frantic and I don't hit any of them, my giant boot just slams onto the hardwood floor. All but one of the creatures have dispersed and I get it cornered. It's one of the bigger ones. I step down hard right on it's stomach and it squirms around on the floor. I stomp again, this time on its head, and the thing shrieks. I stomp again. And again. I can feel the tiny skull blistering under my weight but the mouse just doesn't shut up. I crush it again and it stops.

Picking it up by its hind feet I take a good look at it for the first time. It doesn't look much like a mouse, or even a rodent of any kind. To me, it looked a lot more like, although the tiniest of the tiny, much more like a dog. And it was still breathing.

I panicked.

Although it was still giving signs of life I was positive there was no way this tiny creature was going to survive. I had hit it very hard many times and I had heard (I had felt) its skull crumble. I carried it down to the end of the hallway where there was a door leading to outside. A recycling box sat in the snow. I put the dog down and starting digging through it, trying to find a plastic bag. After some time I found one that would work and turned around to wrap up my sin. The dog was gone.

I ran inside and went room to room, searching. I came to the room I had been in with whoever it was I was with and prayed that the little thing had not dragged itself into this room. I did not want anybody to know.

But it was too late. The other person lay on the bed with her hand outstretched and the dog was licking her fingers. Another person came in behind me. It was Brandin. "Did you get any of the mice?" the person on the bed asked.

"That's my uncle's dog," Brandin said before I could choke anything out. Immediately I knew he knew everything. I felt sick, I felt like throwing up. "What are you going to do about it?" he asked, pointing to the bag in mind hand.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"What are you going to do, huh?"

"What are you doing?"

"What are you going to do about it?"