An Apology for the Guinea Pig

“I’m sorry I killed your guinea pig, Claire.”

When she opened the door in response to my hesitant knocks, I meant to say, “hey.” Not an apology for my old crime. As I stood on her front porch, not sure of what to do next, she started laughing hysterically. She was fit to burst with laughter, but she tried her best to cut it short and succeeded in repressing the remaining emotions into a warm smile. After all, we haven’t seen each other for six long years. Her cheerfulness eased my mind and I finally managed a nervous smile.

“Come in, Laurence.” She led me inside the house.

The living room was furnished the exact same way as before, save for an absent wooden rocking chair. “I heard about your mother. I’m really sorry.” I really was. I vividly remember her baking pizzas and grilling burgers whenever I came to play with Claire. When my visits became regular, she then taught us to make our own snacks in the kitchen. Whenever we messed up or did something bad, I’d be the second to be scolded, with her daughter being the first, right in front of the rocking chair that was nowhere to be seen. I heard the news two years ago, but I was unable to extend my condolences.

“Well,” she said as we sat down on the couch, “she had been ill for years. On her last months she was even diagnosed with a mental disorder.” At that, she glanced nervously at me, just for a second, before casually retreating to the conversation. “What brings you here?”  

“I was just passing by,” I said, “and I wanted to see how you’re doing. After all these years.”

“Oh,” she grinned, “I thought it was because of Mr. Floofy.” As she said it, she laughed again. This time, I started laughing with her.

“Well, I am sorry about that, too.”

“It’s fine. It’s been six years, anyway. Just let it go.” She spoke with a smile, but it seemed that the humor had gone. “It’s just a guinea pig.”

I was taken aback, my mind racing towards that time when we were seventeen. That afternoon, I was furious at Claire, so much that I kicked her pet’s cage on my way out the door. When night fell and I came back to apologize, I found her sobbing nonstop with the cage in front of her, empty. It died, her mother said. “It’s just a guinea pig,” I screamed at her again and again in defense, forgetting about my apology. Until today.

I looked at her, trying to see beneath her expressions. I remember having to do it all the time when we were younger as she suppressed all negative feelings most of the time, out of habit, she said. Maybe it was in her glistening eyes, or the slight curve of her mouth where I used to see the truth. This time, however, I was certain I’ve lost the skill.

“It was just a guinea pig,” I said again for some reason.

We sat silently for minutes, though it felt longer than that.

“You know, it is getting late.” Claire finally said.

“Yes,” I responded, “I’ll be going then.”

“Goodbye, Laurence.”

I went home that night, confused at what passed. It felt awkward. It wasn’t supposed to be like that. We were best friends for seven years before we parted ways. In our childhood and teenage years, awkward was never a thing between us. Even puberty arrived for the both of us, there seemed to be no problem at all. Besides, she was the only friend I had. I really hoped our first meeting would be warmer and more cheerful. Still, I guess that would be way too much to ask for.

Two days later, for some reason, I was back on her front porch, knocking on the wooden door—again. This time, when she opened the door, she wasn’t surprised at what I said, but at the thing I held. Clenched between my fingers was a small metal cage. Inside it was a lively brown guinea pig, squealing excitedly. A tag was hanging on the cage’s handle. Written on it were the words, “Mr. Fluffy.”

Claire gasped, taking into her round eyes the bizarre yet fascinating sight. “Is that for me?”

“It is,” I replied. “I named him Mr. Fluffy, if that’s okay with you.”

She smiled and looked straight into my eyes. “Laurie,” she said, remembering her nickname for me, “why do you keep apologizing? You said so yourself, it was just a guinea pig. I know that.”

“No—I mean, yes, but—”

“Yes, it is.” This time, however, her smile was gone. “I meant why do you keep apologizing for that, Laurie? Why are you here now? What do you really want?”

I just stood there for a while with nothing but silence between us. I was looking for the words to say, trying to grasp the right ones before I spoke. “I guess I just want you to know that I’ve been through therapy.” I was not sure if this was the way to start, but I went on. “You won’t have to handle me like I’m a bomb, ready to explode anytime. I’d be your friend, if you’ll have me and I wouldn’t ask to be more than that, expecting and pressuring you to want the same. You can reject me and push me away in the worst way possible and I wouldn’t be violent and aggressive on you and anyone or anything around me and I wouldn’t,” I calmly said, “kill another guinea pig for it. It took me six years, but if you would give me a second chance—or maybe the hundredth now—I’d be a good friend, just as you were for me. We can stay friends if you'd like. We can just go on about our normal lives, but this time, knowing we had our old friends back. I’m sorry, Claire, and I hope you’ll have me again.” I took a deep breath, hoping she understood. “That’s all I want to say.”

Claire smiled with her gleaming eyes looking straight into mine. This time, I knew she was happy for certain.

“Come in, Laurie,” she said, pulling the door to open wider, “and bring the guinea pig.”