S. Cole Grzywinski

Red, White, Brown, Grey

S. Cole Grzywinski

The story I am about to recount happened some years ago in the middle of spring. The day

was beautiful, even for someone like me who loves the cold. It was the kind of weather that

touched something in you, it reminded you of days when you were little, running through

the grass barefoot. Clear blue sky above and a constant breeze wafting by. It was, in short,

the kind of day that made you happy to be alive. It was on a day like this that I was walking

home from work, earbuds in, enjoying the sun. I usually come home from work grumpy but

today I was in a good mood. I let my arm swing casually at my side as I rounded the corner

of the neighboring house and proceeded down the driveway. The lock on thegate to the

backyard has been finicky for years and it took a couple tugs to get it open. I spun in place

and closed it as I passed through. The yard is of decent size, with stone taking up about 1/3

of the space, and most of that is taken up by the old hot tub, which sits unused under a

crumbling roof. Trotting up to the back porch, I climbed the stairs and approached the

door.

I stopped where I was, idly pausing my music. There was a mouse lying on the mat

in front of the door. Our back door is a burgundy red with a screen top half and glass

bottom half, and it sits on a grey stone step. In the winter the stone is ice cold, even with

socks. The mouse lay there, it wasn’t moving. I slowly approached, leaning in to examine it.

The mouse was a beautiful light brown color with a furry white belly and two large black

eyes which were squeezed shut. It was lying on its side, a small smear of red around its

mouth like lipstick, it wasn’t lipstick. This was an all too familiar sight. My mother hates

mice, she hasthe exterminator put poison around the house to get rid of them. It’s a

common practice and one that I understand completely, I just wish she didn’t use poison.

Do you know what rat poison does to a mouse? When ingested, the poison causes the

insides of the animal that consumes it to slowly weaken, and then disintegrate. In layman’s

terms, they melt. Soon they begin to suffocate on their own blood as their internal organs

begin to turn into a thick liquid. This whole process takes place over the course of a few

days. It is a slow, painful, horrible way to die, one I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. My

mother hates mice, I do not. I love mice, ever since I was a child I’ve loved them. My favorite

books growing up all had mice as the heroes, and to this day Istill see them as little heroes

themselves.

The mouse coughed. I quickly knelt down next to it, hands hovering, uselessly

unsure of what to do. I always get like this, every time I find a dying mouse. Sometimes I

find them inside the house, sometimes outin the yard, they’re always dying though. The

last healthy mouse I saw on our property was years ago, back when we still had a playset in

our backyard instead of an empty patch of dirt and grass. I remember my mother

screaming when she saw it, flitting about like a butterfly, or a moth, yelling for someone to

do something about it as it hopped around. I remember chasing after it, captured by its

adorable appearance as it unhurriedly hopped away on its long slender hind paws before

disappearing through a fence into the bushes. That was the last time. Since then I have

fallen into a kind of ritual whenever I find a dying mouse. Back on the porch, I carefully

step over the small pile of fur and enter the house. I grab two things, my large grey coat and

two clean white napkins. The coat is a formality, I don’t precisely remember why I started

wearing it whenever I dealt with these kinds of things. I think it was out of respect, like

wearing black at a funeral, or maybe I just thought it would make me look cool while doing

an unpleasant job. The coat itself is old and stained at the bottom, but it’s warm and heavy.

It’s too big for me actually, the coattails reaching to my ankles, it’s the same coat I wear

every Halloween when I’m out scaring children and handingout candy. The napkins are far

more practical. I return to the back porch, ritual objects acquired. The mouse hasn’t moved,

but if I look closely, I can still see its small labored breaths by the rise and fall of its sides. As

gently as I can, I use a napkin to pick up the mouse. Holding it in my hands now I can feel its

body, its soft and limber, it doesn’t weigh a thing. It’s so light that it’s barely putting enough

weight on the napkin to stop it from blowing away in the breeze. In my hands, still laying

on it’s side, it looks like it’s laying on a blanket of white silk sheets. The blood still leaking

from its mouth standing out strikingly against the white of the napkin. Up close, I can’t help

but notice that even dying the mouse is still cute, beautiful even. The combination big eyes

and soft fur doing its job, even when marred with blood. I carefully descend the stairs of

the porch and walk over to the shell of the old hot tub, which hadn’t been used in years, and

set the mouse on the cover. I stand there watching it, it’s labored breaths still coming out

slow and methodical. A soft breeze blows through the yard, lightly ruffling the mouse’s fur.

Birds are singing in the trees, the cloud dappled sunlight slowly marching across the grass.

In a word, it’s peaceful. I feel awkward and out of place in this scene, ruining the nirvana.

It’s at this point I begin to wonder how the mouse got to our doorstep. Like I said, it can

take days for a mouse to die after ingesting poison, and it must have eaten it in our house.

As I stand there watching the mouse, my mind begins to wander.

After eating the poison, the mouse would have continued its business as usual, at

least at first. Scurrying through the walls and basement, avoiding the scary humans and

looking for food. After a day the pain must have set in, the first indication that something

was wrong, but even then, the mouse would still go about its mouse business. Around day

two it would start to die. This is where panic would set in, ever growing pain, the taste of

blood. The mouse would try to escape from what was hurting it, maybe that’s why it went

outside. Cats are known to patrol the neighborhood and the mouse must have known that, I

assume, but it went outside anyway. It must have stumbled through the grass, vision slowly

fading. Surrounded by light, sounds, and smells, it must have been hell, all the while the

pain was growing. Why did it head back towards the house? It could have curled up under a

bush. Maybe the house was its home, maybe it was born there, and in its last moments that

was where it instinctively tried to return. But why our door? There are steps, it must have

hauled itself up each one, one at a time. I can see it, the mouse, dragging itself across the

porch. Coughing blood, half blind, heroically trying to find a place where it could be safe.

There, in front of the grey slab standing like a tombstone, it finally collapsed. Seeking

refuge at the place that killed it. Only to have its death disturbed by a giant.

I rouse from my daydreaming. The mouse is still on its side on the white napkin. The

rhythmic rise and fall have stopped. I poke it with my finger but there is no reaction. The

mouse is dead. I scoop up the corpse with the napkin and walk over to the opposite end to

the yard. Using myarm like a catapult I unceremoniously toss the body over the fence.

Respect is for the living, none is owed to a corpse. I hope it will be a nice snack for

something. My duty done, I head back inside, hanging my coat back where it belongs.

Heading upstairs I turn on the game console, intending to consume my attention. The

mouse is still on my mind, I can’t help but feel sad.

Why should I be sad? It’s just a mouse after all, they eat food and spread disease and

contaminate things and gnaw and reproduce and infest. Sure, I read some books when I

was an ignorant little kid where they were heroes but that doesn’t change reality. And

another thing, where there’s one mouse there is always more. There are probably

hundreds around the neighborhood, and more constantly being made. It’s like being upset

over a fly dying, or a rock, or a blade of grass, or people. There are millions of them

everywhere, the lose of one is completely inconsequential. Try saying that at a funeral. The

death of a mouse is an objective net positive for the world. Why on earth should I be sad

about a cute little mouse dragging himself along, gasping for air, chocking on his own blood.

Overcoming who knows how many trials over the course of his short life. Never giving up,

trying to find something that could save him, when nothing possibly could. Feeling his life

slowly ebb away, murdered by the hand of an unseen foe, for reasons that he lacked the

mental faculty to understand, by people who would not even be aware of his passing.

Collapsing,spent of all strength, where no one could possibly overlook him. His corpse

serving as a statement that he lived and died. Only to be found by me, a stupid kid that

loves mice, who’s only reward is watching him die.

The game isn’t helping, I turn it off and go back downstairs.

Winter will be ending soon; spring is one its way. That means that all the animals

will be coming out of their holes and will be out and about. That means mice too. When

spring comes there will be shining sun, singing birds, soft breezes, and more dead mice for

me to find, more white napkins, more grey coats, more red pools. The horrible thing about

all of this is that in a twisted way I’m almost looking forward to it. My solemn task of

cleaning out the bodies is one of the few things that gets an emotional reaction out of me

anymore, my sadness at the sight of the small motionless clumps is almost therapeutic in a

way. It confirms I still have a heart. What I fear is the day I stand over one of the corpses of

my little heroes and feel no sorrow, no pang of regret. How abominable of me, validating

my emotional wellbeing using dead animals. If it was funny it would be a joke.

The mouse, who is the root of all my angst, has nothing to say on the matter. He’s

been dead for over three years.