Evan Schmitt, The Good Rat
The Rat knew he would die tomorrow, so he thought fondly about his life. It was a common fate for his kind to be born in crowded drawers and sorted based on temperament. Friendly rats get to leave the drawer, and feisty rats get to die.
“Although...” The Rat addressed an interviewer who wasn’t there. “Sometimes the babies get to die for no reason, so there’s really no predictability to it at all.”
The Rat rolled over on his side and surveyed the giant pineapple he called home these past two years. Nice. His entire family was eaten by The Snake, he assumed. The Mothers Who Breed warned each baby that their time with The Snake would come unless they were well- behaved with pretty coats and big pink ears. It was a lie, but it was an eagerly believed lie. The rats lived in perpetual grief to the point where they forgot they were sad most of the time.
The Rat’s earliest memory was sunflower seeds. Flat seeds, round seeds, seeds he could crack open to find even more seeds. The Mothers never mentioned these. The Rat felt he’d fallen into favor with The Gods. Occasionally he’d be scooped up and cradled by a five-fingered hand that looked very similar to his own.
“This must be God of the Rats,” he thought. “Whatever I did, I did it right.”
Quickly, as rats have limited time, he forgot about The Mothers and the rest of his family, but he wasn’t that attached to them anyway. Choosing between the constant fear of death and the Hand of God, he felt his choice made itself.
Then, his sister came to visit. He immediately knew it was her. “I thought you got eaten by The Snake.”
“Most of us did. We two were favored by The Gods.”
“What do you know of The Gods?”
“Same as you.”
Well, this is just great, The Rat thought. We’ve already run out of things to talk about.
His sister picked up her tail and fiddled with the end of it out of nervousness. The Rat mirrored her. It was the least he could do.
“How are The Mothers?”
“I don’t remember them.”
“Neither do I.”
“I feel The Gods watching us. Do you think they will pass judgment?” “We have done nothing wrong.”
“Perhaps we are too feisty.” “The Snake is not here.” “Are my ears big and pink?” “Yes.”
“Is my coat pretty?”
“Yes, the same as mine.”
The Rat was quickly losing his patience. His sister, even with her limited knowledge of the world and rat society past the crowded drawer, knew she was wearing thin on her brother.
“The Gods taught me something,” she inhaled, “there are legions of us out there who do extraordinary things before they die and never once see The Snake. They are out there eating cakes by moonlight with sweet cream and berries, dancing and making love on rooftops with music crashing through the air. Doesn’t that sound like paradise?”
“It sounds feisty.”
Of course. Yes. That was far too feisty. Even with all the comforts The Rat and his sister had they knew what fate awaited rats who were too feisty.
Looking back on it now, on the eve of his death, The Rat felt a twinge of guilt as he had spent the last two years eating cakes with sweet cream and berries, tomato sandwiches, peanut butter with apricot jam, and of course, sunflower seeds. Nothing bad ever happened to him, and he wished he could tell his sister, but that was the only time they ever met. Perhaps somewhere, she is dancing and making love on a rooftop. He laughed to himself and groomed his gray whiskers with pride. He never knew rats could go gray.
It was the morning of his death. Blood had started to trickle so slightly from his nose, and he knew it wouldn’t be long. The Gods gathered above him, swirling beautiful golden ribbons in the air with baskets upon baskets full of sunflower seeds spilling forth their endless bounty in thanks. The Gods cried their harmonious tears, but their grief sounded nothing like the grief of The Mothers Who Breed. This was a sweet sound: You are a good rat! You are a good rat!
His ears were no longer big and pink. His coat was not pretty, but he was good. He was so very good. The Gods wrapped him in golden ribbon; he had more sunflower seeds than he could ever need or want.
It was time to go.
Emerging from his giant pineapple like a champion gladiator into the Colosseum, laurels gleaming in the sun, he used the last of his life to leap into the Hands of the Gods and dream for the last time. The Gladiator stares down The Snake’s unholy jaw pried back with greedy hunger. Down in the dark pit of its belly, he sees His Mother and sisters playing Pick-Up Stix with bones, gambling, and making unpayable wagers. The light bounces off their beady eyes as they squint to see golden ribbon billowing in the breeze.
“Go! I am fat from eating cakes by moonlight with sweet cream and berries! I danced and made love on rooftops with music crashing through the air. I live in paradise, and I am too feisty! I am too feisty!”
Hundreds of naked tails wiggle to freedom as he plummets down in a glorious struggle. The Snake chokes, unable to swallow The Rat’s soft, round body. It chokes, heaving up golden ribbon and laurels like treasure plundered from a cave. Choke. CHOKE. The Mothers Who Breed gather their pink children, too blind to find their way. For once, they touch them out of love. Choke. CHOKE.
Nestled peacefully in the hands of The Gods, The Rat smiles and dies happy and in love, their melodious grief singing him to sleep. You are a good rat! You are a good rat!