A Small Miracle
In some distant corner of his reality, he understood that the tenuous thread that anchored his sanity was unraveling at lightning speed. The chemical, rank stink of disinfectant assailed his nostrils; the harsh smell was always with him, obliterating all sensory memories of rain or roses.
The clang of metal sliding over metal announced dinner. Breakfast, dinner, a bucket, and a mop were the only connections that he had to humanity. Faceless service was the only reminder that the world still revolved around a warm sun.
He no longer cleaned his plate. No, those days of ravenously devouring every morsel were long gone. Sometimes he slid the plate back untouched. A question or greeting hanging on his lips, begging for an answer that never came.
The first time he noticed it, he thought that the hallucinatory episodes of dementia had finally taken hold. He’d stared at the dinner plate for a long, contemplative moment before deciding that there was less on the plate than there should’ve been.
"Weird!" he offered, and the sound of his voice echoed and reverberated in the empty space. He felt the awkwardness of his outburst wrap him in shame.
"Now, I’m not only talking to walls. I’m asking questions and expecting answers from a plate."
He looked around, inspecting every inch of the tiny room. Nothing. Nothing at all.
Without warning, his interest rose like a bubble of pain in his chest. He hadn’t been faced with a mystery to solve for as long as he could remember. The pain soon became an effervescent euphoria of purpose; he had something to do; he would solve the conundrum; he would investigate.
His plan was simple: he’d leave the plate in its usual place and stay awake so that he could catch the thief red-handed. He giggled quietly to himself; it was a good strategy. His mind was working the way it used to. It felt incredibly invigorating.
He kept one eye open in the dark. The lights-out policy came into effect at 9:30 P.M., but a faint light from a tiny barred vent high up near the ceiling illuminated the canvas of his intent. In the dead of the night, a flicker of movement alerted him. It was only a flicker, but it was there. He pushed himself up on an elbow to take a better look.
"Geez!" The plate moved. It tipped up ever so slightly. He was up in a flash, but there was no evidence of the interference in corporeal form.
At least he knew that he wasn’t going mad. He sat back down. The bunk bed was solid and reassuring under his rump. A thousand possibilities ambushed his mind.
"No, it can’t be," he said. Addressing the four all-too-familiar walls of his solitary cell.
This place is pristine. It’s almost aseptic; disinfectant is everywhere. There’s no way.
His thoughts were bundled like baggage that had become too heavy. He blew out a whistle.
"There’s one way to find out. I need to set up the trap again and learn to keep my mouth shut." He ran his hands over his bald head and sighed out loud. Determination spiked his resolve.
That night, he lay in wait once again. Plate on the bench in front of his bunk. He lay in absolute silence, dead still.
Then the plate titled, and he felt a jolt of fear shudder through his veins. He was afraid that his heartbeat, which was pinging in staccato, could be heard in every corner.
Then the mouse found its way onto the rim of the plate. It paused, its tiny nose quivering in exquisite vulnerability. Whiskers probing the air for signs of danger.
He couldn’t believe his eyes; he understood the ingenuity and even fate-assigned luck that it had taken for that mouse to be alive at all. The facility was bound to have vermin-specific poison in places where mice could easily find it.
It was a miracle. A sheer goddamn miracle!
He watched while the little creature ate his dinner. Then fear gripped him in the most uncommon way.
What if the creature's run of luck failed? What if the food was not beacon enough? What if..?
When the idea hit, he congratulated himself on his brilliance. He didn’t believe that he had it in him anymore.
"I’m going to tame you, you gorgeous little thing," he whispered, keeping his voice as low and melodious as possible.
"Sweet, sweet. My little sweet!"
Of course, the mouse scattered at the sound.
His fear remained until it returned that night and every night thereafter. Eventually he fed Smithers by hand, and they always ate dinner together, chatting late, late into the night.
Image generated by Dall-E and edited by me in Art Studio
Find the generator here
Beautiful story. Sometimes the friends appear when you least expect it. A little mouse was the company and a soothing for the soul para aquel hombre.
Thanks for sharing.
Good day.
❤️💕😁
Exquisite writing. You draw us in every time. Concise - As always you say so much with so little. This tale of an unusual companionship struck in the depths of isolation, and loneliness for your protagonist, brings purpose to his unfulfilled life, and brings a safe haven to that of his furry little friend. A truly wonderful read.
Thank you @theinkwell
Oh my heart breaks! Good little Smithers. Absolutely everyone on this earth, good or bad, needs a friend. Beautifully-told story, @itsostylish. ❤️
So glad that you liked it ❤️💕❤️😁😁😁😁
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This is beautiful.
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