The Rat, the Boy and the Sun

(Trigger warning: death of an infant, not too graphic)

Death did not bother the boy; he had seen so much of it already.

It was el Sol who he truly feared, for el Sol knew this boy, and it knew his story.

Being that it shone upon the world, it watched over every living thing: praising the worthy, sympathising with the poor, mourning the dead. It experienced life on an almighty level. It knew every tear, every laugh, every birth, every death.

Hunger, thirst, pain, suffering.

Chaos.

Hence, while it loved the many, it occasionally loved to punish the few.

El Sol scorched the barren earth, consuming all with its intense glory. The boy, from atop a sandy hill, held up his hand to shield himself from the blinding light, his cloak his only armour from the assault.

Sucking in the dry air, he slid down the desert dune with the aid of a long walking stick to relieve him of fatigue. Sizzling sand slid in between his toes and miniscule grains slipped into his fleshy wounds. He hissed through his teeth, but powered on, for every second he spent wallowing in his pain and guilt, no closer would he be from salvation.

The shrubs passed him by, watching with curiosity as he shuffled past. They whispered their judgements, gawking at his ripped clothes and frail figure, his splintered lips and peeling skin, his dusty hair and boyish scruff. Some gushed at his beauty. Others laughed at his struggle.

Never mind the shrubs. El Sol was furious.

Amidst the heat, panting filled the boy’s ears. He feared the call of the birds of prey, echoing from far over the rocky mounds. He whimpered at the sandy tracks of overgrown beasts that he hoped not to encounter.

Yet despite every danger, every obstacle, he would not waste time dwelling on his death.

He had lost too much to simply accept defeat.

No family, no friends, no home. All taken from him by those people. Filth as a living entity. Those who infested the slums of his city- his home- with their sick children and their dirty morals, doing what it took to survive and nothing else. They blamed their misery on people like him who thrived on the gifts that were bestowed upon him by his predecessors. They fed off the gutters of his home, begged in the streets of his home, cursed and wailed at the front of his home. He had lived in constant, unparalleled fear. 

That godforsaken city. El hogar.

Home.

A sudden gust of wind laughed in his ears, humoured by his longing. Along with it, the desert dirt scraped its nails across his soft cheeks, pampered from years of privilege. The hours went on, dehydration dizzying his mind and the wind picking up the pace. It was practically howling, screaming with boisterous glee.

This environment, this atmosphere. It was toxic to his body.

He coughed and stumbled over to a small mound of rock. Its cool, drab surface contrasted his burning, bronze complexion. He curled up under his cloak tightly and felt his eyelids grow heavy.

El Sol descended beyond the mountains, inviting the stars to take its place. While darkness consumed the sky, el Sol morphed his dreams into the nightmare of his memories.

~

The crowd outside, increasing in numbers, revealed their suffering in violent plunders.

They howled and shrieked with all their might, powered by el Sol’s burning light.

Panic seized his limbs in fright. Someone save him from this sight.

A mother, skin held by a thread, held the baby above her head.

It soared up high, through the sky, too lifeless and weak to utter a cry.

Cracked the window, did its head, glass blemished the colour red.

It fell to the ground like a bag of bones, the boy uttering a guttural groan.

Now still, as the boy plotted his plight, the crowd would rage on into the night.

~

Something had grazed his cheek. It was slight, like one might caress a lover before they slipped out into the night, or like one might graze a victim before dealing the fatal blow. Either way, he startled awake suddenly, falling away from the rock and into a clump of prickled shrubs beside him. He yelped as their needle-like bristles pierced his arms, then rolled over in a frenzy.

El Sol, as it slowly arose from slumber, bathed the landscape with its orange glow. Its warm passion illuminated the shock on the boy’s face.

Upon the rock against which he had slept sat an animal: small and peculiar with grey, short hairs sprouting from its narrow body. Its whiskers twitched. It reared its tiny head, standing on its hind legs to sniff the stale air with its petite, pink nose.

El rato.

A rat.

Curious. It was familiar; many of its kind roamed the slums, accompanying the plague of humanity that lived there also. Only on the rare occasions where he left the safety of his fortress had he witnessed these creatures at all. It must have strayed far- very far indeed- from its usual habitat. The question of its motivation occurred to him, but spent no time dwelling on the mystery, concluding that the answer was bound to be underwhelming at the most.

Relieved, yet disgusted by it all the same, he stood, regaining his composure. He did not blame himself for his agitation. The abhorrent events that had unfolded just short of a week had tainted his mind. He was certain that el Sol was bringing about his paranoia.

Scratching the hairs upon his chin, he managed a small smile before turning away to continue his journey, the sting of his lacerated feet a reminder of all he had travelled.

An hour passed. An hour in which el Sol would watch the boy be painfully unaware that he was being followed.

In the distance, el Sol extended its beams of light, consuming the dawn in magnificence. The boy’s hazel irises were made striking as he squinted into the light. It was not long before the shine overwhelmed him. He shouldered the East, protecting himself with his tattered cloak.

He took a deep breath, but felt his lungs seize in panic as a vivid voice echoed in his mind. It was neither low nor high, neither loud nor quiet, no tone distinguishable. It just was, and it emptied itself into his blistered ears as it spoke:

El rato.

The boy fell against a boulder where the light could not reach him, one hand clutching his stick to retain balance with the other against his beating chest. What tricks was his mind playing on him, to create such an awful jest that struck paralysing terror into his very own heart?

He huffed and puffed, coughing up the dust. He was in such a state of panic that the tiniest touch against his heel set off a fuse. Crying out, he whipped around, his stick readied to attack. What he saw incited no respite.

At his feet- his bloodied, gashed feet- was the creature, appearing in an eerie state of stillness. If it were not for its quivering whiskers, one might have thought it to be dead.

For days he had travelled, seeking relief from the damnation that he once called home, convinced of the notion that he was a lone wanderer, yet he found himself acquainted with a shadow. This fragment of his past had latched onto him somehow, just when he thought he had left everything behind.

He was determined to clean his slate, salvage his remaining sanity. Starting with the rat.

His face burned as he inhaled and stood upright. With cautious movement, eyes trained on the rodent, the boy fastened both hands to the shaft.

It did not move.

Wincing at the pointed shards that lay rest in the dirt, he steadied his stance.

Not a twitch.

In a swift motion, he raised his weapon high and brought it down on the unassuming creature.

Later, the boy would carry on. He dragged his stick behind him, painting a splotchy red trail in the dirt. He would stop to empty the absent contents of his stomach; his retching that tore up the sides of his throat soon turned to helpless wailing.

El Sol did not stop there, as while the boy crawled onto his hands and knees, the voice returned.

El rato.

His mouth stretched unimaginably wide as he elicited a gasp of pure horror. He staggered back, cursing Satán, and wheezing as if he were winded. In a state of hysteria, he clumsily seized his stick and fled from the scene, those cursed words reverberating in his bones, his heartbeat in his ears.

He ran, and el Sol grinned.

Fear drove his legs to work until they burned, until his breath was no more. The earth gave way beneath him, as if deliberately taunting his every step, until he finally faltered, plummeting into the ground. His body met the land with a sickening thud, adrenaline already beginning to dilute. The stark, metallic taste of minerals lingered on his tongue; the boy spluttered with what little moisture he had left.

The voice was an intruder. Alien and foreign to his psyche. It tortured his mind, taunting his thoughts. It was a poison in his veins, the ringing in his ears. The shaking in his hands, the aching in his temple. The sand in his eyes, the scratches on his feet. The rips in his clothes, the shrivelled skin on his bones. It was the flying baby against the glass, the chaos outside his window.

The boy lifted his head in realisation and met eyes with the impossible.

El rato.

A perfect resemblance of the last fiend. It sat there, no more than a few inches from his face, perking up its ears as he had muttered its name. 

Overcome with his weaknesses, he pleaded in a dying sob, his hands clasping together as he crawled to his knees before the dirty rat. He begged it for its true intent, beseeched it to bestow upon him what he deserved, implored it to reveal it for what it was, why it was punishing him when el Sol was already punishment enough.

Ultimate desperation.

¿Qué deseas?

What do you want?

Still, he received the same answer.

El rato.

El Sol brightened with the knowledge of what was to come, while the boy sat in fear of his own mind, at least until he felt the rumble of the earth beneath his knees. A tremor through the land, through his body.

El rato. El rato. El rato.

Again, and again, more voices grew, overlapping into a crescendo that would rupture his eardrums. The boy gazed in the direction from which he had come to see a swarm of creatures thundering their way towards him. An endless sea of rats chanted their war cry, striking a deadly immobility into the boy’s movements. He watched in defeat as thousands descended upon him. He flailed his arms to rid himself of their attachment, but was soon consumed by their overbearing force.

They covered him, an evermoving blanket of pain and suffering. His scream was cut off by one of the foul beasts that lodged itself into his mouth, the coarse fur against his tongue enticing his mad hunger. They tore at his worn clothes, stripping him down to his lowest self. Blood seeped from every wound and every scratch and every bite, infecting every imaginable part of his body. 

The rats only relented when he finally shrunk in of himself, unwillingly submitting to this life that was thrust upon him. His fingers turned to claws, his clothes fur, his walking stick a long extension of himself protruding from his backbone. The rats scattered, revealing the furry creature in their wake, which remained in unnatural stillness.

Then its whiskers twitched, and it scurried away.

El Sol knew this rat, and although it had known his ending, was nevertheless satisfied.