Ratter

Clearing my mind reveals a dirty floor full of holes. Some old dog still lives in the basement and keeps the rats out.

“I should put you down,” I tell the animal, “doubt you’re catching rats, anymore.”

“You see any?” It asks. “You’re ungrateful as ever.” It chews an old shoe. “You could retire me upstairs. Let me enjoy the sun.”

Broken pillars of light project through the cracks above.

“You’ll wreck the place,” I shake my head, “and I haven’t found your replacement.”

The dog hacks up a shoelace.

“Real valuable landscape you’ve got, with your piles of trash and peeling walls.” I stomp a foot. The dog growls and bares it teeth.
“Rats might improve the place,” it laughs.

I leave my maze and return to half-hectic existence. Headaches start coming on.

“Shit’s probably falling back onto the floor,” I figure, without stopping to investigate. Sleep heals for a while. “Quit chasing your tail,” I yell to the ratter. It doesn’t reply. The knives don’t take long to return and two gnawing spots behind my eyes force me into a dark room. Wine makes the situation worse and I drop into my head.

Everything is knocked over and chewed through, magazines are sawdust, photos reduced to colorful ribbons. I descend to the basement to find the dog. It’s gone, replaced by a churning mass of rats. Luckily, before they can eat me, the floor caves in and my mind gives out completely.