By: Mia L. Hazlett
I hoped the three rats were the only ones. My life or theirs. After squishing one between my foot and the bottom of this miserable coffin, I squeezed two to death in my hands. I wasn’t sure if I was becoming a heartless killer or if the instinct of survival prevailed. Either way, I was alive and they were dead. I would never be Footsteps, so I convinced myself it was survival.
Obviously, I had failed at my attempted murder. Or had I? Maybe Footsteps was dead and Maniacal had tracked me with the Doctor. It didn’t matter. I was stuck underground with dead rats. I didn’t remember what happened from the car to a rat biting my foot. I knew I had a scalpel and tried to cut Footstep’s neck. Maybe I was becoming a heartless killer. Slicing a person’s neck had to fall somewhere in the heartless category. But he was my kidnapper, so I was going to keep myself in the survivalist category.
The real question, how long had I been here? Eventually I would run out of oxygen. Had they put me through all of this just to bury me alive with rats? Months, maybe a year of torture, just to become cake leftovers? Knowing how long I had been here didn’t matter, I didn’t feel suffocated. My breathing came easy. That was more worrisome. Maybe they were keeping me alive to face the consequences. I could handle myself with the rats. They were just looking to survive like me. Survivalist against survivalist. But if they were keeping me alive to go against Footsteps, if he was still alive, that was much different. It wasn’t about heartless killer against survivalist. It was about a heartless killer seeking revenge. I should have let the rats eat me alive. No one survived revenge.