Rat in the Road

I watched the rat die. It’s a creature forged by the gods to defile us, to bring pestilence to our people and fill our land with filth. Then why did it hurt to see it die? In my own home, I’d have crushed it without a second thought. No remorse, either. It is small, but it is deadly, and only the foolish man does not defend himself against the deadly, yet to watch it die the death I saw made it something more. It was crushed, the wheel of a cart catching its hindquarters and pinning the little beast to the earth. It still tried to pull, half broken, until the next wheel sent it flat. It was dead then, crushed no more viciously than I would have done with my boot, but then more wheels came. The little beast became a mash of red and black, pressing into the stones more and more each minute until it could no longer be called “rat.” It was nothing now. A smear. Maybe that’s where the pain came from. If that little life could be taken and smeared, then what life couldn’t?

— Abram Burima, New Calendar year 814