Going Ahead with Rats
We were so poor, I became the bait in our rat trap.
—Charles Simic
When my turn came, my father dressed me meticulously like a piece of dried fish. We all bear the jagged marks of rat bites—silent reminders of things I won’t elaborate on. Nobody in our family mentions them anymore. We hardly speak at all these days. Father eyes me like an unfinished artwork. Perhaps he’s thinking I’m finally ready for the world, but I can’t be sure. The thing is, we can’t talk now. Are we afraid of scaring off the rats? Or is it the deeper fear that instead of words, rat squeaks might slip out—and we’d hate ourselves even more? I can’t decide what scares me worse. From inside the basement trap, I hear the restless shifting of the family upstairs. The dried fish stench on my skin leaves me both hungry and nauseous. Soon I’ll hear the rats coming, I tell myself. Soon I’ll hear them arrive.