Sometimes life ensures that you understand the meaning of a ‘crime of passion’ to your bones. The potent combination of anger and helplessness worked together to show me that I too can possibly be the subject of a True Crime drama. This blog has been quiet for enumerable reasons, I am ready to remedy this with this gripping tale. You, dear reader, will need to brace yourself for my rusty and yet moving words as I describe my harrowing battle against nature. I don’t think my memories exaggerate what I experienced, but I cannot guarantee that my words won’t.
Growing up in a large and busy household, I can sometimes ignore things. I like to describe it as adjusting its importance. So when I hear a persistent scratching above my window regularly, I think of Poe’s The Raven and then grudgingly get up. After all, it is not as if anyone could be driven mad by a sound.
The more I thought of The Raven; the more outrageous and bold did the scratching grow. I would hammer near my windows, hoping it was just a bird in the overgrown tree nearby. As you can surmise from the title, it wasn’t a bird. My disappointment stemmed from the nature of my growing madness. If I could at least have a famous poem to emulate, my descent seemed more acceptable. But madness induced by rodent was insulting. It was practically rabies without the benefit of a bite.
It was not to be borne. I would lay in bed at 7:02 am and hear the scratching of a most vile creature against wood. It echoed inside me as if I was the house and the sound was coming from the inside. I could not adjust it away, I had to do something. This series will be the recounting of my epic struggle in trying to wake up by my alarm alone and the men and beasts that stood in my way.
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