one hundred word story #45: Poison

The rats are dead. They smell sour and stiff and you can't see them but you know that posture: toes curled, or perhaps uncurled, eyes glassy. Once upon a time you were a pacifist. You left your door open. You named them Templeton and Posey. But now you sleep downstairs. You set traps with peanut butter. You heard their shuffles in the night, the scratch of their toenails as they dragged traps full of peanut butter back to rat headquarters, where they licked and bit with a fury you now know. Dead, they taunt you still, their silence sour.