Fiction | January 17, 2025

MOUSE

Tate Gieselmann

I find the mouse lying on its back outside my bedroom at 4:15, when I wake up for work. I almost trip over it, I’m so tired. Tiny clump with gashes in its belly. I crouch to inspect: when it breathes, its tail twitches, splashing in a pool of blood on our floor. It’s going to die soon; its gleaming eyes look right into mine. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I whisper. I look for Bobo but don’t see him. I step around the mouse and the blood. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth while thinking about what to do with it. Of course I know what to do with it. Of course I know.   

I put on my work clothes, stuff my apron into my bag, and grab disposable gloves and paper towels from the kitchen. With gloves on, I scoop the mouse into my hands. It doesn’t resist my touch.  

A cool wind moves along the Excelsior rowhouses. I place the creature underneath paper towels on the sidewalk. Of course I know what to do with it. Before I can stop myself, I bring my foot down on the mouse. It snaps delicately many times. When I pull my Doc away, the paper towels are stained with a quarter-sized carmine spot. I toss the clump into the bin.