S.N. Rodriguez

Bone

S.N. Rodriguez

One day, I heard a high-pitched plea, small, but inescapable. I searched the apartment until I found its source. A young, brown mouse, no bigger than my thumb, was stuck to a yellow glue-soaked tray. It tried to pull itself free, but its underside was coated from tip to tail. Its tiny body rattled with shrieks. I picked up the trap, the skin of my fingers stuck with the mouse, only I was big enough to break free. Like any child, I called for my mother. Mami, do something. Anything. Please. A look of pity flickered across her face. Once, my mother left me under the care of strangers. I was ten. They’re good people. Be grateful. He called me, Bone, as in skin and bones—as in, white as bone—as in, something you want to. She picked up the trap and slid it into the trash can, mouse squeaking. When I dig up this memory, I am pressed between rotting produce, unable to move until I suffocate or starve. When I dig up this memory, I feel his rough hand touch my bare thigh. You’re a good kid, Bone. I think of all the traps humans have created. Are the bodies still stuck, or do they fall away one bone at a time?.