The Glue Trap

It was squealing and I was drunk. Maybe that made it louder. I just don't think they should make those glue traps.

We'd been out drinking. It was our usual thing now. We were twenty-two, new in town, no jobs, no prospects, and all this money we didn't know we shouldn't spend. So we went out and got drunk every night. We'd stumble home and Michael would tell us to be quiet, he has work in the morning, or work in a few hours. Michael moved with a plan in mind, with things in motion. He wasn't going to let stuff just happen.

We had bags of Mexican food and were walking OK. We'd cut through the alley sometimes because it shaved some time off. Probably two minutes tops. And that night I heard this scream, this screech, we both heard it. And next to the recycling bin, half in the shadows, was a rat. Three feet stuck on a glue trap. Scratching with his one good claw, terrified of this thing he didn't know, this thing keeping him here.

We went inside and cracked more beers. We drank them quick, spouting nonsense about how it wasn't fair. Because it wasn't. It just wasn't fair. So we went back out and held hands, and I stomped on its head to end it quick. No more squealing, no more scraping.

We cried and I scraped the blood and brains off my shoe. We were crying when we went inside to see Michael standing there. Wondering just what the hell he'd gotten himself into with roommates like us.