The Rats

by Charles Wheeler http://charleswritessomething.blogspot.com

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The Rats

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He is standing on the sofa in the living room. I can see him from the alley. Thecurtains are open and the lights are on. He is standing on the sofa. He looks tired,schizoid. Like he hasn’t slept. Hasn’t shaved - a patchy beard is coming through. He’slooking around the floor. The kitchen, the next room down left towards the back of the house, has its windows open.He should have seen me by now. He’s looking at the floor, still. Looking around.He jumped! He looked right, at a cupboard. Did he hear something? I saw, when hemoved, he raised a foot up - he is barefoot. The other lights in the house are off. Thereis nobody else in the house. He is trying to look angry now, but he looks worried.Stressed and tired. He needs to sleep but he can’t move. He is asking, will you help?He doesn’t know who he is asking but I answer yes, I will help.I can’t help if he sees me and there are pans and plates stacked next to the kitchenwindow. I go to the front of the house, exit the alley. Front room window, open. Nobody in the pub across the road, nobody around. Inside, a space next to thewindow. No questions from now. Twelve seconds later I am inside. The room is a bedroom, the door is open. I go. Into the hall, into the living room. He doesn’t see me.He is standing on the sofa, looking at the floor. He looks around my feet. I amwearing shoes. I look down and see the floor. Nothing to see, but still he looks,around and around and around. His bare feet are clenching their toes, his hands don’t

The Rats

know where to be. I climb up on the sofa and stand next to him. I smell something.Animal, lived in, like a hamster cage. Dirty, needs cleaning. I look at his face. Still thefloor, still moving his eyes. He sill doesn’t see me, even now I’m right here at hisside. Schizoid, tired. Bloodshot. He should sleep.I wonder what he’s seeing, and I look down. There are rats on the floor. Not one or two. At least twenty. Scurrying around and making noises, louder and louder, and thesmell grows, more and more intense. The air around me is nothing but the smell andthe sound. I am covered in it. I almost fall, but I steady myself. I grab him, I twist hisneck until there is a

krakk

…Silence. Fresh air. He lies down on the sofa, finally sleeping. I step down and walk away, out, through the front door.

The bus stop shrouds him, but it’s too big and he’s still in the open. A few shadowsare on his face from the leaves on the trees above him. He is looking at his phoneagain. Keeps checking it again, again, again. Quick glances. He’s not expecting amessage. He is checking the time, clearly. Panicking about the time, almost. He seemsto be a shroud of stuttered questions,what time is it,where is the bus,why isn’t the bushere yet,am I attherightstop,whatwillIdoif I