The Archives: A Really Horrible Short Story

I wouldn't post this if I didn't know that Rachel would kill me if I didn't, because really it's a horrible story. Rachel insists it's a really, really good story, but I have my doubts. So if you trust her, you can read it, but I would recommend you just skip over it.

But on the other hand, I guess it must have some merit if I'm posting it at all.

This hurts my brain. Here, just read it. Or don't. I don't care either way. And you can also tell me how wonderful it is or how much you hate it. Really, I'm indifferent. This is "Rat."

Rat

She was eight years old when she first heard the creature speak to her. Holding that slightly serrated kitchen knife in her hand, staring at her reflection in the blade, a spider on her shoulder whispered into her ear:

“Put the tip to your chest.”

The child bit her lip. "Dad said I shouldn't."

The spider tickled her cheek as it responded:

“I didn’t say to push it in.”

She contemplated the blade a moment and began to pull it to her ribcage, but stopped and shook her head. Mom and Dad would miss me. Slowly, she placed the knife in the cutting block and continued with her chores. The spider said nothing in protest, but did not leave her shoulder. It sat in wait for five years, patiently anticipating a tragedy.

When next it spoke, she was thirteen. Her father had just killed himself last week, and she was left lost and alone. Though her mother tried her best to console her daughter, there was a hole in the girl's heart that could have only been filled by her dad. A mouse put its dry fingers on her chin and wrapped its tail around her neck, lifting her eyes to look into its face.

“Put the tip to your chest,” it crooned. “You don’t have to push; just hold it right here.” With one claw, it pointed to the aching space in her heart. It smiled a yellow-teeth smile. “I promise it won’t hurt. In fact, you’ll feel better.”

Gulping back tears, the girl obediently brought the blade to her ribs and held it there, feeling the cool metal through her shirt.

“There…” the mouse purred, swiping a tear from her cheek with its paw. “Doesn’t that feel better?"

“Yes,” she choked out. “Yes, it does.”

“And if that feels good,” the mouse went on, “think how good it will feel if you push…”

She initially tried to protest, but the vermin tightened its noose around her neck so she could neither move nor speak. “It will make you feel better,” it insisted, digging its claws into her face, teeth like needles bared.

Crying out in fear, the girl swatted it away with her free hand, the knife clattering to the ground. She slowly backed away from the writhing creature, her face twisted in pain. “No, I can’t," she whispered. Gathering her courage, she screamed at the mouse, "I can’t do that!” She retreated until it was out of sight, never taking her eyes from the creature's.

It followed her, realizing that it had pushed too hard too soon. It would have her, though, even if it had to wait five, ten, thirty years.

Again a spider, the creature crept back onto her shoulder, stepping lightly so she wouldn’t notice its return. Every once in a while it spoke a few words, ever so quietly so as almost not to be heard:

“I know it hurts.”

“I can help.”

“You can feel better.”

Just as before, the beast’s patience paid off. She was sixteen, crushed under stress and on the verge of insanity. With trembling hands, she clutched the slightly serrated kitchen knife, staring at her tear-streaked reflection in the blade. The spider whispered into her ear:

“Put the tip to your chest.”

Without hesitation, she pulled the knife to the aching space in her heart.

“You can feel better,” the mouse hissed. “It won’t hurt. Just push.”

She tried to blubber something through her tears, but the creature couldn’t wait. “Just push!” The rat snarled, wrapping its claws around the blade and pulling it closer. The girl resisted, pushing it away, but her assailant only grew louder and larger.

“It will feel better! Just—”

The rat choked on its words, its hold on the blade slipping. A trickle of blood escaped past its needle teeth. As the creature fell to the floor in a pool of blood, the girl looked through her tears into the eyes of her mother, who clutched a bloody pen and her daughter's diary. She stared at the twitching body of the rat, then the mother gathered her little girl into her arms. A moan escaped the daughter’s lips.

“I didn’t do it,” she wept, clinging to her mother as a lifeline, her words almost swallowed in her sobs. "I didn't do it."

“Shhhh,” whispered her mother, rocking her back and forth.