(notes to any, I wrote this so young, even barring now. To me it is still thick and saturated, a nudge to myself, what might become of it all, so clear even to me then. Revision, still, but I am proud of all its pieces)

He’d never been one for dishes

A small mouse woke me up this morning. He was squeaking about something or another, but I hadn’t heard him so adamant in weeks. It had been quite lonely. We spoke briefly last Thursday. He told me he had had a rough day and was going out to burn off steam. Worry ran me all evening, tore my nails to bits.

Last I checked, he was relocating below the library – his bedroom had grown far too cold at night and smelled damp. He always liked to read, so I thought it was in his best interest anyway. I left some supper under the shelf by the door in case he hadn’t grabbed a bite to eat elsewhere. The little guy wasn’t always the best at communicating plans. 

I supposed I should robe up and check on him, even though the sun had hardly begun its creep up my windowsill. Shoveled my legs from under the duvet and cinched the dark linen around my waist, everything slanted. 

I took more time than usual readying myself; my body felt rigid and I could hardly reach my toes. The ground was still covered in bits of yellow and grey sand from the previous owners; I’d never been one for sweeping.

The mouse’s chirps had subsided, so I figured his situation was under control. After looking at myself illy confused and dowsing my face with cool water, I puttered my way through the hall and down the stairwell. A few of the remaining mats tottering the edges of each step were getting holes and peeling up at the edges. I glanced at the wreck of mismatched shoes in the corner as I rounded into the kitchen. It felt colder than I remembered, shuddering while I opened the mug cupboard. Only three were left in there, the others lazily strewn about the sink. I clutched the pale, smaller green one not feeling very thirsty and shifted my gaze to the window. A little plant rested its sweet dead head against the glass. 

His supper plate near the door was only left with crumbs. I was happy to see my friend had been eating. I scooted the plate across the floor like a penguin and into the kitchen. He was never one for helping with dishes. 

I took a walk that morning. The clouds were kissed pink lightly on their bellies, but I couldn’t find the sun. The sky shaped itself like a bowl of reflecting glass and was hard to breathe from. I couldn’t hear the birds that flew overhead, no one seemed to be awake yet – except a lone postal worker down the road. Into the trees, I wondered how long he had been awake, if anyone had woke him up. 

My feet trailed in the short grass next to the path for a little while until the wind bit too hard on my ears. No longer loathing in self torment, I wiped my eyes and scuffed back to it all. 

The door echoed loudly behind me. I tossed my shoes to the void and dragged back to the kitchen. The little green cup sat near the table’s edge and piped against the stale air. 

“Have you eaten yet?” I whispered

The little mouse looked at me quietly. His eyes held a sad, thoughtful tint.

I grabbed us both muffins from the closet and sat down across from him. Poppy seed was never my favorite, but he always liked them. They were old and dry but still lemony. I walked upstairs and grabbed a book that I hadn’t been enjoying yet with hope. Maybe my little guy would like to be read to. 

I walked back into the kitchen, the plates and cups were placed out to dry and the air smelled of citrus. The mouse was lying on the counter across from the sink with a little trail of blood from the corner of his lip. I fought myself not to send for the doctor, he would commercialize it.  “There wasn’t anything you could’ve done. Pneumonia is a silent killer.”

That’s all the doctor would say.