Case of Dead rats

If there are moments to cherish in life, hold it, treasure it because when things go downhill they will let pull yourself up. But there is only so much one can do to keep it sane. When the brisk monsoon comes calling the name of chilling winds of midnight, make sure to stay inside underneath your warm and cosy blankets or the dead rats will find you. To all the misfortunes I may have burdened myself with, no one had the mind to tell me that, if they did I would have stayed there. When a dead rat bathed in the crimson of what I could assume was its blood was found in the porch I choked on the coffee in my throat assuring me again that walking into one’s porch isn’t the best idea to do in the morning, try the garden, that would be better. Anyway, I had put down my cup of brewed coffee, slowly turning cold.

Picking up the remains was one thing and washing away the blood another. It took a considerable time of my lovely, engaging morning to dig a grave for a garbage rat who had the misery to be torn to pieces by a rowdy cat, which I now spotted strolling around my backyard watching me do the dirty business for him. Snow white with green sharp eyes, walking to a rhythm of its own. One rat could not make me late for the office, but the traffic did and I blamed the stinking cat for that.

There will always be a rising urge to do certain things that we promised ourselves not to do ever, at the least for me I didn’t have another choice but to walk straight into the porch the next morning where I was warmly welcomed by a severed body of a garbage rat, luckily I hadn’t taken the coffee early which saved me from puking over it. I must admit this one was a bit bigger than the one I found yesterday and the rowdy cat if not, a ruthless killer was doing a good job at that. I dig the grave near to the one found last day, hoping they both belong to the same family and wouldn’t want to put them apart in their final sleep. As before the cat walked in the distance watching me with its keen eyes. I couldn’t help but throw a stone at it to save me from its dreadful stare.

Let it go was my first thoughts when I was able to catch the rowdy cat in a netted basket the next evening, I would have if he didn’t put another ugly dead rat at my doorstep to the porch early this morning, three days on a row I have seen a dead rat to start my day, which I can guarantee did no help to make the day any better but only made it worse hour after another. But its sharp eyes were calm and pleading, its soft cry was enough to melt my heart to raise the basket and let it free. It ran faster that I couldn’t spot him when he rushed through the sidewalk. Last chance.

It truly was the last chance, when I sat in the car’s driving set ready with the basket on the backseat ready at my arm’s length, waiting for the cat to jump in anytime soon at the doorstep pulling the ugly carcass for me to see when I wake up as he did early that morning. A week, seven days in a row, the menacing cat left me filthy rats torn to pieces. This time I couldn’t let it pass by. I was determined to catch it red-handed and do whatever I had to make sure it didn’t repeat it ever. So I decided to stay up all night in my car, still and silent, except for the rain that made monstrous echoing through the porch. I cursed like never before on the cat for making me stay out in the cold night. Ones or twice I drifted off to sleep but made myself wake up, there was more pressing issue than one sleepless night.

It was nearing dawn, I could tell, the rain got even stronger as the night passed. The smell of wet soil brushed through my nose, making my already drowsy eyes weigh heavier, another ten different smells came with it. One particular made me nauseated, it took me some time to place the stinking smell, the dead. I could tell that because I have been seeing dead rats at my doorstep every morning for the last seven days I was more than familiar with the smell and there it came again. I leapt over my seat to have a good look at the outside where the cat must be, there wasn’t any however the stinking arose to a level that I wasn’t even sure if it came from the outside, anyway I chose to get my basket to ready myself to leap into the ground if I find the rowdy cat.

Fear always arises from questions when one can’t find all the answers and that is when it captures us. But it can only follow until we find the unanswered a logical explanation, for my knowledge was limited to find the answers that remained, moreover I couldn’t even find the right questions in the first place. My first and foremost question was Who killed the cat? As I looked back at the basket, inside the snowy fluffy cat lay in the pool of its blood. The sharp, uneasy eyes stayed shut, letting itself sleep through all the tortures it had gone through. My second question was How did a dead cat manage to get inside my car’s backseat? I was sure that the cat was not inside before and there was no other way it could have got in unless it learned to open the door and chose to die inside by gutting itself. It was enough questions for me to get out and run into the house.

The last part of fear comprises suspicion, we always try to tie in each event that we can’t understand to our fear, which rises suspicion over anything that happens to us, the dead rat that lay at the doorstep as I made my way into the house kept on feeding the fear in me. For everything that happened on that night and seven days before, I was convinced enough to shut my porch with brick and wood and bar my door hoping it would stop whatever evil that was in play outside. And I truly agree with the fact that it did help to keep the evil at bay, to an extent. Now, I find dead cats at my kitchen sink.

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