Rats in the Cellar

I wrote this as part of an assignment for a class I took on children’s literature. I was shaking almost the entire time I wrote it, putting so much of myself on the page that it hurt. It’s far from perfect, (I have a long list of changes that I might make one day), but I’m still proud of myself for at least trying to say what I wanted to. It’s loosely based off Cinderella (it was part of the assignment), though I’m not sure you can tell.

All the houses in the glass city know how to breathe. Wind is not needed here; the tremor of life is enough. Even the streets shimmer and glow, devoid of dusty footprints, lost papers, or the people who follow you with whispered words and bitter breath. Dusk is the closest thing to darkness; dawn arrives precisely on time. The city only becomes more beautiful when it rains.

I hear her sighs over the screaming. Condescending and heavy, a soaked woolen blanket that scrapes my flesh, pins me to the earth, and chills my corpse.

“The rats are still here.”

The impeccably enunciated consonants penetrate the air before she lifts her tongue. There is no need for her to speak. I know her voice and thoughts as well as my own. They have become indistinguishable.

“You told me to let the first one live.”

I don’t let the words leave my throat.

She continues the tour of the house, running her hand along every surface. The grimace of disgust never leaves her face. Why are you checking for improvement when you are only waiting for the house to fall apart?

We have reached the front door.

“Pathetic.”

The vibrations reach my ears.

I crumple in her absence.

The rats find me there, hours later. I curl their soft, warm bodies close to my chest and let them nibble on my wrists. They are the only things living in this house.

I am still there when she arrives the next day. A bucket of gray water and rags drops by my head.

“Clean.”

Her eyes dare me.

When she first started coming, I tried to keep the house perfect. Every surface was free of dust and despair. Bright colours lined the walls. The roof did not weep, the screams kept themselves silent. If you listened with your eyes closed and hope choking your chest, you could almost hear the house breathe.

“Not good enough.”

Mold crept into the walls.

Dutifully, I take the bucket, soak the rags, and run them against the walls and floor. The more you wash cardboard, the more it peels, the more it rots.

A cardboard house weeps at the outskirts of the city, shrouded in shame. It has no lungs to dissipate its storm clouds. Mere sunshine makes it crumble and fall. The city folk mutter bitterly when they pass. Its presence pollutes the purity of their air.

She kicks the bucket, drenching me in watery filth and hopelessness.

“Failure,” she says, and every word I know nods their agreement.

_____________________________________________________________________

She brings her children the next day. They are called Daughters. Together, we are called Family. Mother drops the Step from the name, but I am still the bottom of the ladder. She grabs the first rung and calls it Obligation.

The air from their lungs is an odd kind of life. It swirls and shrieks, wrapping ’round necks, shaking bones, and gently pulling stomach linings out to greet the sky.

The Daughters bring piercing laughter in white wax-sealed envelopes.

“We’re all invited…even you.”

“I can’t wait to see you there tonight; you haven’t been out of the house in forever.”

“I know you’ll look beautiful.”

“It’ll be so much fun.”

I build an orchestra out of their words. They play a piece titled, “Mockery.” Mother, of course, is melody, and the Daughters sing harmony. My heartbeat is the bassline. It thuds in my footsteps and plucks my ribs.

Mother shrugs away the final strains as she turns to face the door.

“Make sure to lock the door on your way out.”

She spits daggers over her shoulder. They strike true, piercing down to my marrow.

Cardboard houses do not have locks. Locks cannot hold cardboard doors shut.

I never asked you to come in.

The audience calls for an encore.

_____________________________________________________________________

Spite is a motivational speaker whose list of tools does not extend beyond sobbing. Reason sweeps the tissues off the stage when the show is over. He tells the crowd it’s time to leave. They stare beyond him with unseeing eyes and remain anchored to their seats.

My hands will not move to twist the doorknob, so I throw my body against the hinges. My limbs crack and cry out a conversation, asking permission to leave for one night, to see if I exist beyond these walls.

The house stands silent.

Cardboard is frail and weak, but I am the one who collapses.

Prayer is a preacher with no inside voice. He kisses my forehead, grasps my wrists, and tears my arms from my shoulders. He lays their dead weight gently at my feet. It is the closest thing to a blessing I have ever received.

I leave my body in the cellar and drift into the city. Its breath pulls me into its heart. My house sings a mourning song that penetrates the sound of life. I cannot turn away.

“Would you like to dance?”

He takes my hand like it is made of crystal. I am a glass creation, pure and unmarked and bright. My edges are cut perfectly straight; there are no fingerprints, no give. Together we spin as if I belong in this city that has only wanted me to leave.

A song has gone by and he pulls me in for another. His flesh is warm and real. I drown my emptiness in his wholeness, and he makes no complaint. I hear laughter in my hair.

He stops to catch his breath. I make-believe that my chest is moving.

We sit on the cobblestones and watch the bright fabrics flash by. Hands intertwined, we are grounded in this ocean of shimmering figures. I can taste the salt spray of the waves.

He asks me what I am called and the name Worthless worms its way into my mouth. I beg the word to decompose and try to spit out its bitter taste. It squirms through my lips untouched, and I have no breath to cover its sound. His eyes meet mine, startlingly bright.

Run.

A glass city has never been a place for cardboard houses.

_____________________________________________________________________

The rats embrace me when I arrive. We skitter down to the cellar, and I slip back into my own skin. The foundation caves and curls—a cradle for my bones. “Rest,” it tells me. My grave has already been prepared.

I fall asleep to the sound of the walls breathing.

She enters with soft steps and hushed whispers. She tucks my hair behind my ears and waits for me to awaken.

“Tomorrow, we will try again.”

I am home.