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Squirrel

The lights weren’t working. I blamed the incompetence of the electrician who’d done the wiring. A rush job, no doubt. The fact that I was said incompetent electrician was beside the point. The important thing was this; the light switch had been pressed, darkness remained, and the scent of slightly roasted rodent filled the air.  

 

My electrical problems had started in the spring when a family of squirrels decided to take up residence in the nooks and crannies of my house. I say ‘house’ in the absolute loosest sense of the word; those in full command of their mental faculties would probably plump for ‘shed’.  The squirrels were rather noisy, but what with the dripping of the tap, and the rattling of the sheet of plastic I’d put over the window, their rustling and squeaking didn’t make much of a difference. I didn’t mind them. I didn’t even notice them, really, and graciously allowed them to stay without asking for so much as a penny. In return, they ate through all my electrics, often frying themselves in the process. I often wondered what it was which had prompted my guests to opt for death by electrocution. Perhaps it was the lack of a continental breakfast, or complimentary pillow chocolates, which had driven them to the edge.   

 

When all my lights (all two of them, anyway) were taken out by those beasts, I simply accepted it as an act of God and used candles instead. The candle-lit life was by no means unpleasant, and besides, I had very little desire to be awake any longer than absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, my tealight supply dwindled rather rapidly, and the village shop, in yet another example of postmodern decline, only stocked candles smelling like vanilla and unicorns. I was also beginning to greatly miss my electric heater. As such, I was forced to accept that a return to the twenty-first century would be necessary, and I set about re-wiring the place. And so, several days ago, after a few hours’ sweat, and a few non-fatal electric shocks, I emerged victorious, clutching my toolbox and the charred remains of a couple of squirrels. I then liberally smeared the walls with toothpaste, having half-remembered, or perhaps imagined, that squirrels aren’t particularly fond of peppermint. Success! The lights were back on! I was a free man, free to enjoy the blessing of illumination at any hour of my choosing! I was rather pleased with myself; life is generally nothing more than a series of disappointments. One suffers the consequences of one’s own actions, or sometimes someone else’s. Nothing more. But that day, God, in his infinite mercy, granted me a small victory. The lights were back. I put the squirrel carcasses in an old supermarket bag and had a drink.   

 

This blessed situation, however, did not last particularly long. True to form, God gave me a good thing only to then take it away again. Today I woke up early, as I am accustomed to doing, and flicked the switch. Nothing happened. Blackness remained. I tried again. Nothing. I heard the familiar sound of scurrying. Damned creatures! A wave of anger swept over me; how could they have come back already? Did those rodents not understand they were no longer welcome?   

 

Before I knew it, the hammer was in my hand, and the walls and windows were looking rather less intact than usual. The scurrying stopped; or so I imagined, anyway. Had I hit one of them? What was I thinking, smashing the shed? Since when had that been a solution to anything? Perhaps I’d just frightened them. I dropped the hammer on the floor and went to inspect the damage. As it fell, I noticed the metal was now tinged with red.  

 

The house, which I built myself, was falling apart. As I said, ‘house’ is a strong word. I used to live in a real house, a house built with bricks and mortar and double-glazed windows, built by professional people who used spirit levels and measuring tapes and other indicators of architectural correctness. One might even have called that house a home, as one does when a mere building is transformed by love. But then, suddenly, without warning, the house’s three bedrooms had only one inhabitant. I tried to continue, I tried to live in that big house, full of nothing but its own emptiness. Eventually I couldn’t. It had started to suffocate me. All that damned double-glazing. The silence oppressed me, the stillness oppressed me, the dishwasher oppressed me. What did I need a dishwasher for, with only a single plate to wash? So I left. I woke up one morning and I left. I locked the door to the house, buried the key, and went to live in my shed. At the beginning, it was scarcely large enough to lie down in, which didn’t matter. I couldn’t sleep much either way. The thin panels of wood offered little protection against winter nights, but insulation is largely a secondary matter when you have an ample supply of hard booze and a liver made of steel. Over the years, I expanded my shack gradually, improving things here and there. It’s quite sufficient now, even luxurious in parts, though I would hesitate to have guests on account of the lavatory system, which would offend anyone with a functioning sense of smell. Eventually, everything was complete. I say ‘complete’ in the sense of finality, not wholeness; nothing would ever be whole again, but I had reached the end. I’d reached the end a long time ago, but it was turning out to be an ending that went on and on and on, like watching some awful concert which the idiot audience has decided deserves multiple encores.  

 

I inspected the damage. I’d have to fully replace the window; the plastic sheet wouldn’t quite cut it anymore, especially as the nights grew colder. The walls had fared better than I thought, on the plus side. The lamp had lost its lampshade; it now stood naked, the broken lightbulb looking like a freshly decapitated boiled egg. I realised I hadn’t eaten for a while. Well, food would have to wait. I glanced over at my chair, and next to it, the bag of dead rodents, already in the preliminary stages of decomposition. I needed to deal with them before the smell became more pungent.  

 

It was raining outside. A few metres from the shed, near to the other mounds of earth, I started to dig a hole. It didn’t take long; I only needed a very shallow ditch. I took out the charred squirrels from the plastic bag I’d deposited them in and laid them to rest. There were three of them, all different sizes. I laid them out in a row, next to each other. They’re quite beautiful creatures, really, though you’d never catch me admitting that in front of them. I smoothed their tails and closed their eyes, and then attempted to make them all hold hands. It didn’t work; their bodies were cold and stiff, and my fingers weren’t delicate enough; I heard one of their arms snap. I exhaled shakily and moved the squirrels closer to each other. They lay there under the grey sky in a kind of embrace for a few moments. They were together, at least. Then I started shovelling the earth back over them, until their faces had disappeared for ever. I smoothed out the soil with my hands, patting it gently, then I went back to the shed to retrieve my prayer book.   

 

I opened the book at the correct page immediately. The words weren’t very legible anymore; my thumbprints had rubbed the ink off, or the page got wet, or something. Served me right for buying a book with such cheap paper. It didn’t really matter; I didn’t say the words out loud anyway. I couldn’t, I never could, I don’t know why. My throat closes up and I can’t say the prayer. Maybe it’s because I was never baptised, or because I’ve never quite managed to believe in the whole thing, or perhaps because I actually do believe it, somehow. I don’t know. The words just get stuck, an invisible hand curling around my neck and tightening with every passing second. I looked at the page, and at the heap of earth in front of me, and then back at the page, hoping the words would magically emerge from my mouth. I don’t know how long I stood there for. A minute, an hour, it was all the same. Eventually I got frustrated with my attempt at religion and went back inside.  

 

I sat down on the chair, sinking into its rotting flesh. Rolling up my trouser legs, I switched on the heater, pulling it close enough for the hairs on my legs to start sizzling. I stretched out my hands and massaged them. They were becoming more and more decrepit with each passing day, as was every part of me. When on rare occasions I looked in the mirror, a singular word came to mind: congealed.  

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a tail poking out from underneath my camp bed. I kneeled down and pulled it. It belonged to another squirrel. His fur was matted with blood, his once delicate features now an amorphous mass. There was no sign of charring; he had managed to avoid the fate of his companions. Well, not really; he might have escaped death at the hands of the plug socket, but my hammer had found him in the end. I held him gently, afraid to crush him. I already had; I tried to forget that. My eyes burned, and I couldn’t quite see clearly anymore. It would have been better for him if he’d chewed through a wire. Less messy. Less painful. Well, probably not. But he wouldn’t have died alone, at least. 

 

I hurried back outside, back to the mound of fresh soil. My knees gave way beneath me, and I started digging, digging with my bare hands, furiously tearing up the earth until I found the little squirrel bodies again. They were so small, so fragile. I lay the bloodied one down next to the rest, and then squeezed them all together, squeezed them until I couldn’t tell them apart anymore, until all of them were bloody, all of them were charred, all of them were together. I picked them up, clutched them to my chest and started to sob. They smelled like earth and fire and rodent. I lay down on the grass, the cool grass still coated with dew, and held the little creatures in my arms, breathing in the soil, waiting for it to consume me.  

 

May 15, 2026

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