THEY SAY 50% OF MARRIAGES END IN DIVORCE, BUT

own hands whether I liked it or not. A few weeks later, I was sitting in a Chinese restaurant with my daughter when I received a call from my then-wife gleefully informing me that she had killed the mamma rat. I felt so bad. I was honestly very, very sad. Embarrassingly, I cried in the restaurant. I didn’t bawl, but I did shed a few tears. My daughter who was twelve at the time was both shocked and bemused to see me crying, let alone over a rat. I tried to hide my tears as I quickly bent over my plate and scooped some orange chicken into my mouth. Given the damage Achilles was doing, the whole situation felt karmic because my ex-wife had always been extremely annoyed at my sympathies towards “vermin.” It felt like some sort of punishment. Often, when I woke up and saw that Achilles had caused damage to the cabinetry or appliances, the only thing I could think of was my ex-wife gleefully trying to hide her smirk, “I told you so.” She really did tell me so. In a strange way, this rat haunted my failed marriage. I don’t know what this can possibly mean, but one night I dreamed that Achilles was in bed with my ex-wife.

IV

An Abrupt End

Like most major events in life, the end of this story begins unexpectedly. It was a hot, tranquilizing afternoon, and I had gotten home early. There was a pleasant feeling to the air, and the neighborhood was quiet. It was one of those days where it felt like the whole world had stopped to watch the passing of time slip pleasantly by. Maybe the rat felt it too. I swung open the door and there he was. He stood with his hind legs, frozen on the counter above the trashcan. For half a second, he didn’t move, and just looked at me from across the room. This is a picture I still remember clearly: The sink to his left, the kettle to his right, and the trashcan just below him. I don’t know what in God’s name he could have been thinking in his head, but all I can say is that terror was imprinted all over his tiny face and twitching body. It’s a strange feeling to walk into your own home to be met with a look as if you yourself are the intruder. Terror is not restricted to humans. Does my ability to do algebra really affect the way I experience so greatly? Every living thing has the desire to preserve their own existence. What the rat experienced the moment he saw me was no different than the experience of a human who is attacked by a man with a knife in a dark alleyway. I have never experienced this type of terror but I saw it in Achilles’s face clearly. Horror is visceral, primitive, and universal. I suddenly heard a squeak, a quick scratching as he clawed for dear life, and a thud as he fell to the floor. After all those months he slipped and became ensnared in the glue-traps he had avoided for so long. This was a human mistake

he had made. Day after day, he danced and avoided the dozens of traps I placed by the trash can each night. Eventually it seemed, he had become complacent in his routine. The fear that drove him behind the walls during the day had failed him. He had dropped his guard and in doing so became caught—not out of lack of skill or agility, but for a lack of patience. He was stuck to one of the traps beneath the garbage can. I could barely stomach looking at him, a quarter out of revulsion but mostly out of empathy. He violently thrashed his body about the floor, trying to get away from the trap I had set him. His little claws scratched against the floor, and for about twenty seconds he contorted his body back and forth trying to get away. Then, a strange thing happened. He began pleading to me. This isn’t in some metaphorical sense. He began making a noise I cannot forget. He sounded like a crying child—a human crying child. He was almost whining “Hel…he…hel… help.” I wouldn’t believe the noises he made unless I heard them myself. He was desperately trying to escape the trap, and trying to chew through it. It was this plaintive, wailing sound. So human, like he knew what I wanted to hear and was appealing to me in my own language—he was shockingly human. I went outside to the shed and grabbed a shovel with a long handle. I went back inside and used this to pick him up. He writhed and tossed and wailed. Once or twice he jerked his body so violently that I dropped him and I had to pick him back up with my shovel from the hardwood floor. His body felt soft and squishy against the hard metal. I couldn’t look at him directly as I carried him outside for his execution. Finally, I made it to my backyard. I put him down on the concrete and went to fetch an ax hammer. It was as quick a death as I could think of. There was no ritual, no goodbye, no final words. This was for my sake. He continually pleaded with his voice, but I blocked it out. Even through metal and wood of the ax I felt the quick compression of his body, his small bones snapping, and his final squeal before I brought the ax down onto his head. The blood was the worst part. Thankfully, it rained that night, so I didn’t have to wash up the flesh stains he left on the concrete.

I was twelve when I killed my first bird with the pellet gun my parents had bought for my birthday. At first, the target was enough to have fun, but eventually, the birds that flittered about the trees became much more tempting to shoot. I just couldn’t help it. They darted in and out of the trees so quick and small. My hunter instincts kicked in and I didn’t think, I just shot. It’s so much more tempting to shoot at something moving, and I didn’t even consider what would happen if I hit one. I’m not even sure it occurred to me that I could hit one. The first time I did it was shocking and thrilling. It was electrifying to feel the crack from my hand, the bird darting in the trees and see it fall from the sky a moment later. It just dropped out of the sky suddenly like a rock. I was fascinated that I affected something so

far away. For a few months I shot at little birds in the trees. I stopped the day I hit a dove. It was a bigger bird, so it didn’t die immediately when I hit it. It just lay on the ground bloody and wounded. Unlike other times I had shot birds, I went up close to examine it. It was such an elegant animal. It had white and grey wings that were soft and slick, and a small, beautiful little head. I loomed over it, and it just looked up at me with a sad, deep look. I was a monster and it was pure. I’ll never forget the look of that dove. It just looked up at me, accusingly. It was quiet, but it looked up with its eyes and accused me. It felt like it was asking, “Why did you do this to me?” I wish I could have helped it, but there was nothing I could do. I was too ashamed to get help from any adults, so I just sat with it in the shade under the tree where it fell. It kept on looking at me, with its round, glassy eye. “Why did you do this? Why did you do this?” It kept on asking. I had no answer.

Bloom, Peter. Personal Interview. 26 Apr. 2020. Bloom, Peter. Personal Interview. 27 Apr. 2020. Bloom, Peter. Personal Interview. 28 Apr. 2020.