deadrodent

I have two lists in my room that father doesn't know about. One for every dream, described by one word, dated, and timed. And another list, with everybody I'd want to kill if I had that mentality. On top of both lays that elks tooth. He still wants to take me out hunting, blergh. I'm more tempted to find something dead on the side of the road and give it to him. I wouldn't eat it anyway. The other night some sort of small rodent crawled in my room through the window. Scared, I slammed the window shut on its head until it stopped moving, I could feel the wind pour into my room, the early signs of tonights storm, a little laugh jumping from ear to ear beckoning me to the woods, to inhale all the rain I could. I closed my eyes until it hurt and brushed the drizzle off of my cold face, feeling more like wet plastic. The winds were of summer turned, coaxed by death, of course. With a heavy breath for each one, it took a total of three swings for it to stop twitching, for the wind to stop in shock, where upon the beginning of the fourth, it's body promptly slipped out and into the lawn, a few stories down into the dark night. Caught in this fear, this rage really, I rushed down from my bedroom and snuck out through the front door, crawling through the gap, facing the now brewing storm, holding my hair out of my face as I stepped through that carpet to my window. There I found it, illuminated by moonlight, lifeless and yet with so much meaning I could ingest it and grow another year. I looked up and inside my room now, for an answer, and its yellow artificial lights began yelling angrily and grasping at the sky's messy hair, missing each strand, crying out to nothing. I saw a figure there too, a silhouette. She looked like me, but I knew she wasn't, and could never be. When I looked back down at the rodent, at its remains, I heard the blinds of my window shift through the wind, and the silhouette had removed herself.