At first I was afraid of the mice. They'd been before and I jumped when I saw them scurrying around my apartment again. I put out poison for them and hoped they'd die deep in the walls where I couldn't see or smell them. When I didn't see or hear from them in several weeks I thought the poison had gotten them all. But I was wrong. They had retreated, built up their mouse cities, gotten cozy amongst the insulation and wiring. They set up shops, built sidewalks, knit hats, dug out their favourite recipies and borrowed teaspoons of sugar from each other. They celebrated the safeness of the walls. And then, when they knew I was no one to fear, they came and carried the poison away. They ground it up into a find powder to use in their own traps to keep the crickets at bay.

I'm tired of sharing my space with these tiny squatters. I'm no longer afraid of them. I hate them. If I were to see a mouse today, I'd run after it and step on it. Squishing the life out of a tiny mother or father. Then they'd know that I am someone to fear. Then they'd know that they were dealing with a woman with murder in her heart.