Bent

The mouse runs across the room in a panic, but sits comfortably staring at me under the radiator when it knows I can't reach it. They're clever, these vermin, how they keep you up at night with a racing heart and bleary eyes. I chase it into the closet, it's a farce, it scrambles over piles of shoes while I hang off the side of the bed trying to figure out how to guide it to somewhere - anywhere - else in the apartment. A few times I consider surrender, handing over the room and sleeping on the couch, at least for now, at least while it's two in the morning and maybe tomorrow I can handle it better.

But I do not.

When rodents gnaw their way into your blood stream, you do not give up and give in. Not anymore. The Universe is telling you to make lemonade, even when it's two in the morning and you're quite sure you can't handle it.

The mouse sleeps in my room, but so do I, and I do not run. If I come out of this a little better than before, perhaps it is worth the trouble.