Rat Song

Chapter 7

With Father working at the forge and Mother running errands with Emma, William hauled his last load of firewood inside. Sweat rolled down his back and a steady ache filled his muscles, but though the work was taxing, physical labor eased the burden his mind carried. Father seldom praised his work, but perhaps completing the task that had been delegated to him with nary a complaint would sand the sharpness from his words.

Once he laid the last of the logs in the heap beside the fireplace, William wiped the sweat from his brow and hefted the fire poker into his hands. Built for pulling burning wood into a more suitable position, the end of the long piece of iron curled into a sharp point, perfect for piercing a rat's skull. Such precision was not required to kill a rodent either, not when the metal could crush tiny bones with a single strike. It wouldn't be the cleanest death, but if nothing else, it would be a quick one. William bore no sympathy for the ravenous creatures, but neither did he relish the thought of killing one himself.

Not even one that had invaded their home.

Emma's room hadn't changed much since she'd returned. All of her toys save Mr. Bear remained in her toy chest, and her sheets lacked the telltale wrinkles she'd leave whenever she tried to help Mother put them back on the bed. Not a single flower graced her nightstand, leaving the room dull and lifeless.

The air hung thick with silence. Such lifeless cleanliness was befitting of a cemetery, not a child's room.

William's footsteps did little to disturb the quiet as his feet shushed softly against the floor. When he was younger, his mother would call him her little ghost and gently chide him for startling her whenever he seemed to sneak up on her out of nowhere. His lips mirrored his feet, as silent as could be lest he incur Father's wrath.

That ever-cautious quietness served him well as he strained his ears searching for the smallest squeak. He waved the poker under the bed, but only a stray leaf fled from the metal. Nothing lurked under the sheets save a single sock.

With the bed thoroughly investigated, William turned his attention to the toy chest. A thick layer of dust coated the worn wood with not a single fingerprint breaking through the grime. Inside, a formerly beloved collection of stuffed animals stared up at him with cold button eyes. Where countless cuddles had once flatted their fur, now only the moths gave them company, gnawing through the fabric to reach their fluffy innards.

William blinked back tears as he nudged the toys with the tip of the poker. Emma may have come home, but the little girl who would beg him to put on concerts for an audience of stuffed animals was long gone.

Metal jingled inside the depths of the toy chest.

William froze, his grip on the poker tightening until the iron dug into his palm. His muscles tensed in anticipation of the Father's belt. The wet slap of leather on skin echoed in his ears as his breathing quickened, his chest so tight his lungs burned. Each heartbeat slammed his ribcage with all the force of Father's hammer striking his anvil.

Sharp pain followed by the metallic taste of blood seeping onto his tongue broke him from his trance. He was not kneeling before his father with his eyes squeezed shut. He was not waiting for the next blow. He was not crying for help that would never come.

He was alone. Safe.

William wiped the blood from his lips with his thumb. Only a few drops this time. Nothing Mother and Father would notice when they came home. Nothing that would invite unwelcome questions.

The rest of his investigation of the toy chest passed without incident. Robbed of the element of surprise, the tiny metal jacks scattered across the wood posed no threat as they clinked harmlessly against the fire poker. With nothing abnormal inside the toy chest save bits of stuffing sticking out of the moth-bitten stuffed animals, William moved on to the closet.