Trapped
I awaken, startled by a scurrying sound. I sit up and look around in the darkness, but my eyes don’t see. The darkness hasn’t lifted yet, it must be the middle of the night still. Slowly, I lie back down and close my eyes, desperate for some added hours of sleep. Just as I feel myself drifting back into dreamland, I hear it again. Closer, this time — but when I stare into the room once again, nothing catches my eye. Mice, I’m sure. This house has seen better days and as we’re in the middle of nowhere, a few unwanted occupants are to be expected. Nonetheless, I decide to get up and head to the kitchen, I doubt I’ll fall asleep a third time now.
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The house quivers and aches with the wind that’s howling outside. A storm must be brewing. I can see the branches of century-old trees swaying in the wind, an eerie spectacle this time of night. Once I reach the kitchen and hit the light switch, I notice the mess. Crumbs on the counters, some spilt milk. Celia must have been hungry for a midnight snack. She never cleans up after herself, not properly anyway. No wonder we have mice with this feast at the ready for them. As much as I want to, I can’t leave the kitchen like this, so I start cleaning up before I head over to the fridge and pour myself a glass of wine that will hopefully put me to a restful slumber. As I absentmindedly sip from it, a thought pops into my head. We must have some mice traps somewhere in the cupboards. Celia is always rather safe than sorry, overly prepared for any scenario — and whaddaya know, I find them in the second drawer I open. Carefully, I lift one out to take to my bedroom. Maybe I’ll be able to sleep better, knowing the nocturnal creature won’t survive long.
The next morning I feel the sun’s rays warming my face as I tiredly open my eyes. I turn to get out of bed and as soon as my feet hit the floor, a sharp pain shoots through the right one. I look down and see it’s blue and swollen, crusty with dried blood. I try to remember the events from last night, but I don’t recall stubbing my toe. “The mouse trap!”, I suddenly think. But as I scan the floor for it, it’s not there. However, I see a little trail of blood leading out of the bedroom. Stumbling out of bed and following the droplets into the kitchen, I open the drawer I found the traps in last night — but curiously, there are none left. The kitchen is spotless except for the bottle of wine I opened and seem to have left on the counter. Empty. I glance out of the window to see if I can glimpse Celia’s car, but it’s not parked in its usual spot. I’m still alone.
Night time falls and I’m once again in my bed, fading into sleep. In the dead of night, when it’s still pitch-black out, I awaken. Hungry. The storm I felt coming last night has now grown into a full blown beast. I hear the violent wind outside the windows as thick raindrops pelter on the roof. I scurry down to the kitchen. Get out the bread, some butter and cheese, when I’m startled by another noise. A scream. I freeze for a minute before I race back into the bedroom, leaving crumbs afly in my wake. Scared to death, I slam the door shut and crawl into my bed, hiding under the covers. My breathing is quick and shallow, my heart going a million miles per hour. Enveloped in the dark, I pray for morning.
Celia drives up to the house after spending a lovely few days in town with her boyfriend Paul. She is humming as she slams the car door shut and soaks up the warmth of the sun as she heads for the door of her cottage — the cottage her parents had left her, when they passed away. A few branches seem to have been torn off the sturdy trees that have graced this property for as long as she can remember. The storm must have been even more ferocious out here than in the city. Celia unlocks the door and steps inside, already expecting a scurrying noise. She hasn’t been able to keep the rodents at bay, the little bastards taking full advantage of the house only being occupied a couple of days a week. In the kitchen, Celia sighs as she sets eyes on the crumbs and gnawed on cheese and bread. The mice traps don’t seem to be working after all. Remembering she placed one in the bedroom as well, she enters carefully, not wanting to step in it by accident. As she glances down to her feet, that have stopped just a few centimetres short of the trap, she lets out a horrified scream and runs from the room. She’s seen mice caught in traps before, but never a human toe.
