Ruth Writes

She busies herself in the kitchen, moving around the room on autopilot to make herself lunch. She opens the bread and takes out two slices. She puts one on the grill and the other on a plate. She fetches the cheese and ham from the fridge and dances around a bit as she waits for the first slice to toast. Once the smell of almost burning bread wafts through the air, she pulls out the grill and quickly flips the slice over. She adds a slice of cheese and puts it back under.

A strange scratching noise brings her dancing to an abrupt halt. She pauses and sticks her head forward slightly as if it will help her hear the sound more clearly. Nothing. She shrugs. She must have imagined it. She bends down to peak into the grill and sees the cheese bubbling away in the heat. She pulls her sleeve over her hand and pulls the grill back out, slapping on a slice of ham and the second slice of bread. As she pushes it back in, the scratching noise starts again. She freezes. Did that come from the walls? She tilts her head and takes a silent step towards the wall until it scratches again. She whips around. It’s coming from the wall on the other side of the room. She frowns, turns, and listens. Nothing.

Whether it was a figment of her imagination or nothing serious, she lets her brain list all of the possible things the noise could belong to and none of them are fun. The smell of bread that is dangerously close to moving from tasty toast to charcoal fills the kitchen and she rushes back to the grill and takes it out. The top crust has turned completely black. That stupid noise nearly cost her lunch. She cuts the ham and cheese toastie in two and sits at the table.

As she takes her first bite, the scratching in the walls starts again. This time, it sounds like it’s coming from three different places. She shifts in her seat, her heart pounding. The noise itself isn’t what’s bothered her, it’s the not knowing what made the noise. She grabs her phone and calls her mam. She’ll know what to do. If she doesn’t, she’ll just accept that she’s screwed.

Her mam answers on the third ring and skipping right ahead to the important part, she holds the phone in air and asks if she can hear the noise. Her mam stays silent, absorbing the scratching that starts and stops for a while.

‘It sounds like you might have some little friends living with you, sweetheart,’ her mam says.

‘Mice?’ she questions. Her mouth drops open as her mam tells her to wait while she finds the number for the mouse guy. As if on cue, a tiny mouse tiptoes across her table and sits itself on her plate. It sniffs the air and then takes a nibble out of her cooling toastie.