Mus Musculus
One second I was sitting there, nibbling on a dry ramen noodle, and the next a bullet was whistling through the air, directed at yours truly. I didn’t even know he had a gun. Who in their right mind would sell a firearm to him? Though you gotta feel sorry for him. But excuse me if I’m a little biased in my account of the story, because the man did just try to kill me.

I first met him a couple months ago while in search of a new place to live. I had been staying in the basement of an old apartment building, but it burned down one night. Something to do with chewed electrical wires, or maybe it was arson; the tenant on the second floor had been cheating on her boyfriend for months. All I know is that it left me out in the cold without a crumb to my name, so I set out in search of a place to spend the night. That’s when I met Jeff. He was drunk at the time, struggling to fit his car key into the keyhole of the front door. His dark hair was unkempt, with a scruffy beard and a dirty flannel to match. My little paws were pretty damn cold at this point, and my options were limited. An icy rain had begun to fall, so against my better judgment I found myself squeezing through a hole in the foundation of the rickety apartment building.

I should’ve known to stay away. We rodents usually have pretty good intuition about these kinds of things, and I, especially, have seen enough of the world to know when to split. Maybe the cold rain had seeped into my ears and numbed my brain. Who knows?

Once inside, I was met by a stench so strong I almost keeled over. Some combination of rotting pizza, stale beer, and dirty human infiltrated my nostrils, and I retched with every step I took into the room away from clean air. In the darkness I could make out the faint silhouette of a cot in the corner and a figure lying motionless on top of it. I was alarmed; had I stumbled upon some sadistic man’s dungeon and his prisoner within? I later learned this was only Dave, who didn’t get out much. He had chronic fatigue syndrome.

I managed to find my way upstairs, where I made my temporary abode. Thanks to Jeff and Jack Daniels there were plenty of holes in the wall for me to choose from. One in the corner of the kitchen fit me well, and I made do with a tissue and some wood chips to rest on for the night. The next night I found a rag to add, and the next a bit of cotton. Before long it was a nest as good as the next. I had lost my button collection and my favorite sock to the fire, but even so I had made a home for myself in the dingy apartment.

I’m a single man, and maybe this is the reason I decided to stay. Jeff, Dave and Phil were all bachelors as well, and I found our living situation easy and relaxed. I didn't have to worry about cleaning up after myself or keeping my profile low, the way I had to when I lived with Mrs. Potts. Dave never really left his basement other than to watch Modern Family on Sunday nights, and lately he hadn't even made that trip. Phil had greater concerns than a mere mouse in the kitchen. If Jeff ever noticed me, he didn't make a fuss.
Until tonight of course. Until he tried to shoot me.

Jeff has always had his bad nights. Phil and Dave accept them silently, and I learned to do the same. He blunders home dizzy with rage, bottle in hand. Phil simply sits with him some nights and waits it out. Listens to him scream in silence. Eventually Jeff sits too, and then he speaks. They talk for hours sometimes. Dave ventures upstairs every so often and eats a PB and J with them at the table. Then they put Jeff to bed, and in the morning they wake as usual. The bad nights happen. Usually there’s no gun involved. Usually no one gets hurt.

The Schizophrenic

How tragic, shot by my own gun in my own bathroom. Almost poetic, but mostly pathetic. I was staring at my reflection in the mirror at that moment, the crest toothpaste smeared around my lips, and hair greasy. I heard Jeff stumble through the door and listened to him bang about in the kitchen. Another bad night. Then I remembered: it was November 23rd. Her birthday. The poor guy just couldn’t let go.

I brushed mechanically, my mind wandering along its usual route. When would they strike? Were they watching me right now? Why were they doing this? I knew they were watching, and at that moment all of my fears were confirmed. The shot rang in my ears and I watched a red spot blossom on my wrinkled t-shirt and grow slowly. I stared in fascination, my head ringing. A hole in the wall between the kitchen and myself showed me the horrible truth. It was Jeff. He had been one of them all along. Or maybe they’d recruited him after he moved in. He was the inside source I’d been searching for. I had considered every option, even bugs in the walls. But that’s just crazy.

Dave was probably in on it too. But Jeff: I never saw this one coming. The hot head alcoholic who couldn’t even remember his own name most nights had been recruited by the masterminds behind it all? Unfathomable. And what an intriguing twist, the use of my own weapon, purchased solely to defend myself against them. Well, they clearly chose the wrong man for the job. It’s harder than one might think to murder while intoxicated.

My mind was buzzing, but the red flower on my shirt was growing larger. I felt nauseated, yet distant from my body. I saw myself standing there, bloody fingers pressed up against the hole in my shoulder. I watched my figure struggle out of the bathroom and into the bedroom across the hallway. I took Jeff’s cell phone off his bed. I never had one; too easy to track. I hesitated to dial the three digits into the phone; my fingers were so bloody. How rude to wipe them all over Jeff’s phone. How unsanitary.

It was possible that they had forced him into it. Maybe he missed on purpose. I’d always liked Jeff. If you catch him on a good day, you’ll understand.
I wiped my fingers on my pants before dialing: 9-1-1.

The Heavy Sleeper

I opened my eyes to the muffled words in my ears, only to be met by the gaze of an equally bewildered police officer. I stared for a moment, frozen in my confusion. “Can I, uhh, help you officer?” I said, pushing my hair out of my face.

“You seriously didn’t wake up?” he said, looking back at me blankly. I didn’t move. “So you didn’t hear a gunshot?”

“Wha- Gunshot? Who got shot?”

“Your roommate, Phil. The other one, Jeff, shot him. Don’t worry he’s been brought to the hospital. It looks like it’s nothing serious; he was lucky. But really, though, that gunshot was right above your head. That’s really something. Didn’t even hear it, huh?” The officer shook his head and let out a low whistle, and I smiled weakly. An odd giggle escaped my lips.
When Phil visited the apartment for the first time, a print out of the Craig’s List ad clutched in his sweaty hand, I’d liked him immediately. He was dressed in brown corduroys and a faded red sweatshirt decorated in rips and holes. His eyes were kind, and his smile genuine. His hands shook and his feet tapped. I knew he’d pay his rent.

Jeff was a bad decision, I’ll admit that. But not a murderer. Just broken. My mind flicked back to the PB and J nights. I couldn’t forget the sadness etched into the lines of Jeff’s face as he told us. Years later and the pain was still raw.

He was a poor choice, he didn’t always get his share in on time, but he was no killer. I looked up at the officer.“What the hell happened?”

The Culprit

“I already told you,” I said, exasperated. “I got home from the bar around three. I saw that damn mouse on the floor and I shot at it. I must’ve had a couple too many ‘cause I missed, and it happened to go through the wall of the bathroom, in the exact spot where Phil was standing. I didn’t try to kill anyone, s*** just happens sometimes.” The pounding in my head was growing louder and I sighed.

“What bar were you at? Is there anyone who can confirm your whereabouts?” The officer glared at me, and his dark, beady eyes flicked back and forth between mine. I leaned back and closed my eyes.

I was supposed to go to college. You see, my father was a lawyer. My grandfather was a lawyer, and my older brother Larson was in law school. I was a bright kid. I studied hard, and everyone loved me. I had that Wheelock charm. Hell, I even played football. I was going places, everyone knew it. Only seventeen and I already had it all figured out.

“Hey! I asked you a question! Is there anyone who can confirm your whereabouts last night?” he barked. He emphasized every word, and I felt the chill from the flecks of his spittle on my cheek. I felt the corner of the picture in my pocket rub against my leg. I opened my eyes slowly.

Marley Simmons’ eyes were like nothing I’d ever seen before. I remember how she used to smile, and they’d light up like suns. I wish you could’ve seen it, maybe you’d understand. The night of our first date I could barely speak. My hands quivered and sweat stains grew underneath my arms. I almost blew her off. I knew I’d screw it up. What was the point in trying? But once I saw that smile, I forgot. I forgot about sweating, about law school, and football. And I smiled too.

“Yes, probably the bartender,” I said, tracing circles on the table with my index finger. I could feel his little, mean eyes boring into me. I didn’t look up.

Her face was different that night. There was a solemnity in her eyes that I had never seen before. I was scared as she whispered. “I’m keeping it, no matter what you decide.” There was never any decision. Only those eyes, and that smile.

“What bar was this?” he asked again, my index finger still moving in small circles around the table.

They never forgave me. I was a blemish on the family name; better to pretend I simply wasn’t there. But Marley kept smiling, and her stomach continued to grow. I got a job bussing tables after school. We would make ends meet, I would support all three of us.

“I’m only gonna ask you one more time, asshole. What bar were you at?” He twisted his wedding ring and his eyes flicked from my face to the clock above the table.

Marley was facedown when I found her in a pool of blood. I remember the doctor’s face as he entered the waiting room to give me the news: pity. Suddenly I couldn’t forget anymore, I had lost my smile. I remembered everything. I still do.

I remembered how my mother used to cut off the crusts of my sandwiches. I remember how Phil listened, with that little smile on his face like he was really hearing you. I remember Marley touching her swollen belly and looking at the sky. “Let’s name her Rose.”

“Alright we’re gonna have to take you downtown for questioning if you won’t talk. Hands behind your head.” The click of the handcuffs rang in my ears.

That damn mouse.