The love boat

March 13, 2009

The last rats on a ship, me and you. The water's gushing in from every door and window, swelling then surging up the stairs and coughing and sputtering up through the little air conditioning vents in the floor. Then the red carpet's turning maroon before it's murky then soggy, and the furniture's coming unstuck and drifting long and lazy across the ballroom floor. I'm weightless suddenly, with the cool water pushing up on my belly and lifting my little toes from the plush floor. And then with the adrenaline and the endorphins and the ceiling coming down smooth and slow at the oddest angle and bringing the vertigo with it, well then I'm on the moon.

A spark's arcing from the chandelier and for a moment the dreaminess shatters and the noise is unbearable and the water is whooshing around like a tornado and I'm worried about electric shock. And then there's that deep moaning, that thundering bass and the creaking that crescendos in a sound like crashing cars and glass on glass. Then it's all coming up wet and fast. Real fast, and the moon dream is back and the sounds seem dampened and if it weren't for my heart whirring at a million beats a minute it's almost as if I'm calm. The pieces of furniture are floating and jostling each other, and the water's moving not in fast and tight little angles, but broad and wide with slow, thick curves. Now that's volume. That's a whole boat full of water.

So that's when I hear you somewhere behind me, just as I'm realizing there's about a foot of space left between the water and the stairwell door to the upper deck, and it's shrinking something fierce. Your squeaks are all rapid and pleading and rammed close together in that pitch that means you're fucked, and that pulls me out of that dream again for just a half a second. And when I'm almost through and I turn and I'm looking so far back but right into your perfect black eyes, taking that last glimpse of your cute, peach and pink nose and the way your one white whisker stands stark against the black ones, your adorable little face doesn't even register. And before I know it, well, I'm out on the deck and clambering wet and dripping and bleary eyed to the rail on starboard and leaping into the black.

----

So here I am. The noon sun's coming down straight and heavy and wet. Salty, undrinkable, smooth green water as far as the eye can see. And me clinging to this beat up armoire, scrambling front then back as it rolls and tumbles with the swells, and staring blankly at the far off flat line where water meets air. Hot as hell. Couldn't hurt to gnaw on the wood, I guess. The sun is sweltering, let me tell you. Here's hoping for another boat dragging an anchor cable or a fishing line or even just a hull caked in barnacles. Or better yet, an island of garbage. God, if you're up there, send me a garbage island.

Yeah, sure I think about you. After all we went through, of course I have to. The way your matted gray fur clung to your narrow little body and your pink little feet kicked so furiously; and your graceful neck, the way your head and snout extended in time with each stroke, how could I not? Just your nostrils and your eyes were above the water, with your little mouth open and your smooth teeth gleaming from just under the surface, and your tail was working so frantically. Your frail little rib cage was quivering with each panicked breath and your tiny black eyes were shining awful with the fear and the betrayal and the abandon. And then the water coursing up and over you, and me turning my back. Sure I feel bad. Real bad.

But the thing is, baby, we're rats. And that, that was a sinking ship.

Tags for this piece: fiction story creative love rats

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