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Short Story: The Rat

By W. P. Airotciv

My Gloved Hand approached the frightened animal cautiously. Pink eyes staring unseeingly into space; the rat trembled. Now! The brown leather glove darted across the cage. A white streak. Damnation! I promptly drew back my hand. Bloody morning! First, I get into a terrific row with my wife. Then now, it is a blasted laboratory rat which does the biting. Biting ... I associated that word with my wife. The thought of Marilyn made me frown. Warily I pushed my gloved hand nearer the animal again. Those damned gloves offered poor protection against those evil, sharp fangs. Marilyn ... even money would not keep her quiet. The rat blinked once, twice. She twitched her ears nervously. Queer, I thought. Number three had always been a quiet animal, until I had started starving her for experimentation. We had been happy at first, of course. Marilyn and I. Just us ... then we had those horrible "friends" ... the gambling. I recovered what I lost. But she lost faith in me. The animal was quieter now. No one would have believed it. Beautiful wife ... house ... car ... She is still beautiful, of course ... Yet, this hell. The rows. The fight. Her nose searched the air. Hungry, I thought. Number three had been starved for over 24 hours. Starving! Could Marilyn be starving of love? Not that. It was alright before—a sharp pain in my index finger. Damnation! Again! Vexed, I slammed the cage door shut and began hunting around for antiseptic. The poor light of the psychology laboratory did not help much either. My hand throbbed horribly. I washed the wound. The cold water was unpleasani. My finger stung. Stung. I recalled her parting shot before I slammed the door. "You can take your b—— money ..." Had not remained to hear the rest. Blood dripped on to the sink. Bright red spots. They turned a sickly pink in the water at the bottom of the sink. A thought struck me. Hell! I couldn't do That! But why not? I looked around me apprehensively. No eyes. No human eyes, at least. But those bright pink eyes seemed to gleam triumphantly. Evilly triumphant. I began laughing. A horrible disembodied voice. Mad laughter. I clutched the lapel of my coat. The cages swam round and round. Am I insane? I felt O.K. The plan must be thought out carefully...

Patiently, I worked. Twice, I almost gave up the idea. Sometimes, Marilyn could be nice. So nice. But we still argued, and quarrelled. We fought. She was trying to destroy me, I told myself. Number 15 was chosen for the job. For he was the wildest. Still untamed. I used a plastic doll right from the beginning. I chuckled inwardly as I worked. It was quite a job getting that doll made. It was a beautiful doll ... Doll! Marilyn was beautiful. Still is. Ah! Marilyn ... pity it has to end this way. I had marked out the jugular veins on the neck. A pretty neck. Marilyn's neck! Slowly. my rat learnt to perform his evil mission. Jump! Jump! Hunger, thirst, and fear of the cruel electric shock compelled him to work. Jump! Again and again. Pounce on to that pretty neck, my boy. Right into that target. Sever the vein ... So ferociously did the animal sink his teeth into the rubbery neck that I soon had to get another one made. The second doll involved less difficulty, though. Glennis—that was what I had named her—was even more real than the first doll, especially in that dark lab. Pretty. Marilyn was pretty, and still is ... but her soul? Has she a soul? ... Do we have souls? ... Glennis does not have a soul, that is certain, at least ... Or am I mistaken? ... Do dolls have souls? ... Patiently I worked.

Once, someone disturbed me in my lab. "Well?" It was a fresher.

"Who are you looking for?" Damn her! "Speak up. I can't wait all day!" Must not show alarm. I endeavoured to smile. But my cold lips only moved, stiff.

"I—I—am sorry sir. I am only looking for Professor Fords."

"He is not here."

After that encounter, I grew more careful. Then number 15 had grown sickly for a few days. I had overstated him. Anxiously I nursed him back to health. Then the starvation diet began again. Poorer scores at first, then improvement. One morning eight months after I had thought up the Plan number 15 scored his first 100%. That meant that out of 100 training jumps he had scored a hit 100 times. Again and again, his teeth sank into that rubber neck. Then he dropped back to 80%. I shocked him relentlessly. It must be soon. Marilyn was driving me up the wall. 70% ... 90% ... 97% ... 98% ... 97% ... 100% ... 97% ... I would just have to risk that last bit. What was a 3% chance of failure? If I fail? ... It must work ... Theie was no turning back now.

Zero hour was six hours away! Six more hours and I would be free! "Free! Free!" I felt like shouting. "Get a grip on yourself now." I visualised her lying there, blood streaming from her throat. Blood! Blood all over those green kitchen floor tiles. Blood! I retched. No! Must go on. I smiled to myself. That pretty face. The lovely figure ... All useless. No longer will she eat into my soul. Caught myself smiling in the swinging glass doors. Fool! Careful now ...

"Sir—" I swung around, clutching my coat.

"Well?"

"Sir, are you Mr X—?" I nodded. My heart pounded. I must go on with it.

"What is it?"

"Sir, I am sorry ..." His voice receded into the background amidst a crescendo of imaginary screams which filled my head. "... police ... grave news ... said it was suicide ..." Marilyn! Oh Marilyn! What have I done? ... "She was found too late ..." Too late! But was it too late? I had not done anything yet. At least, not the last part of my plan. "... Are you all right sir? ..."