Rats
The walls seem darker this morning, they’re insolent and beige. I’ve tried to make them yellow but the government issue paint is thin and refuses to cover the layers of grease and cracked grime.
Yesterday, I found an old mirror. It was against the bins, under cardboard soaked with stale lager and vomit. I might have missed it too, but for the sunlight. Well hardly that, its dull red glow lifts your skin, but it is hardly sun or light. Still, there was the tiniest slither of shininess beneath the rotting cardboard and rags, and there it was, my beautiful mirror; its stucco bronze angels spattered with magnolia and only a little crazed.
It’s the rats that really get to me. Several of them have been hiding in the roof space. I’ve heard their shrieks. Sobia says they’re harmless. She believes them to be supremely intelligent and spends many hours talking about her research. She keeps the clean kind in her bedroom. Specially refined white rats, trained to perform. I can’t like them; even in their glazed pink eyes there is a hint of rebellion.
Oh they perform, they find the treat at the end of the maze or learn how to unlock the door but don’t imagine they don’t shiver with thinly veiled contempt. They watch, they wait and we are their natural enemy? You see it going through their minds. Teach us, teach us all you know, and we will tell our black and brown brothers. And now we know there are treats and now we can open doors.
Sobia is special; she wears silk and sips her drinks slowly in case it should make her fat. She uses henna to paint her pale skin like an Indian bride. She has dark hair that falls in coils about her shoulders and eyes of violet and gold. Every contour of her body is svelte, her movements precise yet fluid. She loves her rats. They sleep in the crook of her arm on red satin pillows. They have an aura of superiority. Such rats will never take poison; they are too wise.
Sobia has decided to become a vegetarian; she can’t imagine how she could ever have eaten meat. The smell sickens her; she threw away the grill pan and with it our meagre ration of four crisp pieces of bacon. We have no pasta and the rice, which is damp, is slowly being consumed by grey mould.
I had to wait a whole week for the bacon, dreaming of it, my mouth running dry with desire. Even knowing it would be cold and solidly greasy, I tried to retrieve it. I would’ve eaten it, even smelling as it did of sickly damp paper and tealeaves, but the rats got there first.
It’s all to do with the rats I suspect; they’re becoming more confident. They tap on the pipes all night. A kind of code I think. They’ve infiltrated the kitchen. The fridge door has been opened and the butter mauled. The last of the cereal is nibbled. I had to fight them for crumbs and sustained a small bite for my pains, the wound weeps and the skin throbs, angry, red.
Today the government announced an end to milk supplies. The smog has killed all but a few cows. The farmers rioted because the rest were taken from them and slaughtered for meat. Their land has been seized by the state. We watched the shootings on the plasma over the wreck. These screens have been placed in each city and town to inform the public of new prohibitions - and the consequences of disobedience.
Sobia is teaching her rats to obey her commands; they bring her small pieces of jewellery from the other flats, nothing that will be noticed, but still, it is stealing.
I walked past a corpse yesterday on my way to the food queues. It drew my attention because this thing had once been human. There were aspects which could not be denied, like its shape and scale, but in most respects it was unrecognisable; the colour and stench bringing both the desire to run and the compulsion to stay and see an unimaginable truth. Man’s destiny; for though we choose to close our eyes, this is where we all head, even Sobia, blackened, stinking - food for rats.
The noises in the pipes were louder last night and the air smelt sulphurous. I coughed blood; it left a brown stain that the water made worse; the water’s a strange colour and tastes of metal. There are new holes in the pipes again this morning. I will wrap them in plastic and cover them over with clay, but I fear it’s too late.
I’ve been sick for hours. The rats watch. I hear them scuffling and whispering. They can read now, I’ve seen them. They’d taken the papers from Sobia’s files. They stood rigid following the text by candlelight, then their voices rose in shrill cries of exhilaration. Not unintelligible nonsense, but curses for man and his lack of care of the world.
Sometimes the mirror is all that is left of normality. My face stares back palely; under my grey eyes are shadows. My flesh is spare though; I’m almost as thin as Sobia, but not as beautiful or as special. The rats do not sleep in my bed, they scuttle in the pipes and curse in the kitchen. They don’t any longer wait for night and their numbers increase.
There’s a strange silence today. Sobia says she has perfected her ability to communicate with the rats. She called me into her room to show me. There was no doubt. She laid out a chart on the floor. It took me a while to recognise exactly what it was because the room was dark with their presence. Slimy, warm, scuffling; a black and brown army of liquid fur, writhing, scratching, confident and nonchalant, they gazed entranced as she opened a plan of the city, every sewer marked, entrances, exits - who will notice a rat? The government fears humans. They regard rats as mere nuisance; even the elite white ones are deemed only fit for laboratory experiments. But these same rats paw over the plans, mutter affirmations, discus the best treats and study how to open windows and drains. They whisper their venom; they plan for their future, and no one suspects.
I look in the mirror. It is my only solace, my skin is moon silver and my ribs show like teeth above my abdomen. Sobia says that soon I will be special too; she has painted my legs with henna. The slow strokes of the brush spin a web of senses. It colours them warm and exotic. She will anoint me tomorrow. No one need know.
The wound has knitted at last. Spreading from its epicentre, a fine silver down grows; each morning there is more and my grey eyes grow darker. I sleep little; their voices are clearer than ever now.
Today I went out into the streets. There are more corpses; they litter the pavements and liquid runs from them, dark bile into the gutters. For the first time I feel a lightness, as if my body is air. I know the future is brighter. The sun cannot last forever, it burns itself out and the bins overflow, food for an army, wait to make our move, the hair on the scab spreads, light and glossy.
I have new senses. Everywhere I see fresh revelations, even the smell of rotting meat no longer sickens me, and in my head is a plan. It shows all the city’s entrances and all its exits. Tonight I will sleep on scarlet sheets. The mirror is still there but I lose interest. I no longer recognise what I see. Sobia is beautiful; she’s teaching me how to change the world. It’s a process, long overdue and tomorrow perhaps, I will own my own rat.
Yesterday, I found an old mirror. It was against the bins, under cardboard soaked with stale lager and vomit. I might have missed it too, but for the sunlight. Well hardly that, its dull red glow lifts your skin, but it is hardly sun or light. Still, there was the tiniest slither of shininess beneath the rotting cardboard and rags, and there it was, my beautiful mirror; its stucco bronze angels spattered with magnolia and only a little crazed.
It’s the rats that really get to me. Several of them have been hiding in the roof space. I’ve heard their shrieks. Sobia says they’re harmless. She believes them to be supremely intelligent and spends many hours talking about her research. She keeps the clean kind in her bedroom. Specially refined white rats, trained to perform. I can’t like them; even in their glazed pink eyes there is a hint of rebellion.
Oh they perform, they find the treat at the end of the maze or learn how to unlock the door but don’t imagine they don’t shiver with thinly veiled contempt. They watch, they wait and we are their natural enemy? You see it going through their minds. Teach us, teach us all you know, and we will tell our black and brown brothers. And now we know there are treats and now we can open doors.
Sobia is special; she wears silk and sips her drinks slowly in case it should make her fat. She uses henna to paint her pale skin like an Indian bride. She has dark hair that falls in coils about her shoulders and eyes of violet and gold. Every contour of her body is svelte, her movements precise yet fluid. She loves her rats. They sleep in the crook of her arm on red satin pillows. They have an aura of superiority. Such rats will never take poison; they are too wise.
Sobia has decided to become a vegetarian; she can’t imagine how she could ever have eaten meat. The smell sickens her; she threw away the grill pan and with it our meagre ration of four crisp pieces of bacon. We have no pasta and the rice, which is damp, is slowly being consumed by grey mould.
I had to wait a whole week for the bacon, dreaming of it, my mouth running dry with desire. Even knowing it would be cold and solidly greasy, I tried to retrieve it. I would’ve eaten it, even smelling as it did of sickly damp paper and tealeaves, but the rats got there first.
It’s all to do with the rats I suspect; they’re becoming more confident. They tap on the pipes all night. A kind of code I think. They’ve infiltrated the kitchen. The fridge door has been opened and the butter mauled. The last of the cereal is nibbled. I had to fight them for crumbs and sustained a small bite for my pains, the wound weeps and the skin throbs, angry, red.
Today the government announced an end to milk supplies. The smog has killed all but a few cows. The farmers rioted because the rest were taken from them and slaughtered for meat. Their land has been seized by the state. We watched the shootings on the plasma over the wreck. These screens have been placed in each city and town to inform the public of new prohibitions - and the consequences of disobedience.
Sobia is teaching her rats to obey her commands; they bring her small pieces of jewellery from the other flats, nothing that will be noticed, but still, it is stealing.
I walked past a corpse yesterday on my way to the food queues. It drew my attention because this thing had once been human. There were aspects which could not be denied, like its shape and scale, but in most respects it was unrecognisable; the colour and stench bringing both the desire to run and the compulsion to stay and see an unimaginable truth. Man’s destiny; for though we choose to close our eyes, this is where we all head, even Sobia, blackened, stinking - food for rats.
The noises in the pipes were louder last night and the air smelt sulphurous. I coughed blood; it left a brown stain that the water made worse; the water’s a strange colour and tastes of metal. There are new holes in the pipes again this morning. I will wrap them in plastic and cover them over with clay, but I fear it’s too late.
I’ve been sick for hours. The rats watch. I hear them scuffling and whispering. They can read now, I’ve seen them. They’d taken the papers from Sobia’s files. They stood rigid following the text by candlelight, then their voices rose in shrill cries of exhilaration. Not unintelligible nonsense, but curses for man and his lack of care of the world.
Sometimes the mirror is all that is left of normality. My face stares back palely; under my grey eyes are shadows. My flesh is spare though; I’m almost as thin as Sobia, but not as beautiful or as special. The rats do not sleep in my bed, they scuttle in the pipes and curse in the kitchen. They don’t any longer wait for night and their numbers increase.
There’s a strange silence today. Sobia says she has perfected her ability to communicate with the rats. She called me into her room to show me. There was no doubt. She laid out a chart on the floor. It took me a while to recognise exactly what it was because the room was dark with their presence. Slimy, warm, scuffling; a black and brown army of liquid fur, writhing, scratching, confident and nonchalant, they gazed entranced as she opened a plan of the city, every sewer marked, entrances, exits - who will notice a rat? The government fears humans. They regard rats as mere nuisance; even the elite white ones are deemed only fit for laboratory experiments. But these same rats paw over the plans, mutter affirmations, discus the best treats and study how to open windows and drains. They whisper their venom; they plan for their future, and no one suspects.
I look in the mirror. It is my only solace, my skin is moon silver and my ribs show like teeth above my abdomen. Sobia says that soon I will be special too; she has painted my legs with henna. The slow strokes of the brush spin a web of senses. It colours them warm and exotic. She will anoint me tomorrow. No one need know.
The wound has knitted at last. Spreading from its epicentre, a fine silver down grows; each morning there is more and my grey eyes grow darker. I sleep little; their voices are clearer than ever now.
Today I went out into the streets. There are more corpses; they litter the pavements and liquid runs from them, dark bile into the gutters. For the first time I feel a lightness, as if my body is air. I know the future is brighter. The sun cannot last forever, it burns itself out and the bins overflow, food for an army, wait to make our move, the hair on the scab spreads, light and glossy.
I have new senses. Everywhere I see fresh revelations, even the smell of rotting meat no longer sickens me, and in my head is a plan. It shows all the city’s entrances and all its exits. Tonight I will sleep on scarlet sheets. The mirror is still there but I lose interest. I no longer recognise what I see. Sobia is beautiful; she’s teaching me how to change the world. It’s a process, long overdue and tomorrow perhaps, I will own my own rat.
posted by Sue hardy-Dawson at 6/06/2011 07:44:00 PM
2 comments
