The Mouse's Nightmare

Chris Smith bought the painting a year ago. It was called "The Mouse's Nightmare" and was a painting of a mouse crouched on some dead sticks in the woods. The most impressive feature of the painting was the wolf. This full life wolf was poised to strike, its eyes centered on the little mouse. The wolf's mane and ears full out ready to attack. It had its paws raised and was within a second of catching the mouse and devouring it. The wolf showed no mercy in its eyes and it would not be compassionate with the mouse whose only crime that day was to venture too far out onto a branch for a nut or a grub. You cannot see the mouse's expression but you can imagine that it is one of shock and terror. The painting was dark, as was the coldness of Chris's heart. Each time he looked at the painting he saw himself as the wolf; stalking, silent, ready to rend, ready to kill, ready to survive over other, smaller creatures. Even when he bought the painting he kept bidding higher and higher, grinding the lesser opponents away from it. One particular chump had mentioned how he wanted the painting so bad. That, more than anything, originally decided Chris that he would have it. Not because he particularly wanted it at the time, but that someone else did. He made them lose, and he, as usual, had won, and now, a year later, The Mouse's Nightmare was his. And he had pride in the painting he bought. Pride because he kept others away from it, but pride also, because it belonged to him.

painting "The Mouse's Nightmare" by Heidi Nickel

He would come home each night from his work and after his supper he would spend time in his large den. A fire would roar at his side and he would sit in the high-backed Victorian chair facing the rest of the room. Most of his den had shelf upon shelf of books of every topic. He would read a book and occasionally he looked over at the other side of the room. Above the couch there, was his glory: his painting. It was so perfect. It made him feel powerful and it gave him a sense of ruthlessness, not that he had to go very far to feel that particular emotion. One did not go far in business if they are not ruthless. His ruthlessness this year had netted Chris a huge two million-dollar bonus above his regular salary. It wasn't hard to do. He had determined there were a lot of workers in his employ that could be disposed of. Their jobs farmed out to areas of the world where a worker might make a living wage or they might not. But their wages were only one twentieth of a salary of one of the original workers. It was a shame that he came up with this idea at the middle of November. Over ten thousand people with a separation slip in their Thanksgiving pay envelope. It would be a cold winter too. But here he sat, warm with a glass of Sherry, alone and contemplating his fortune. He had money enough to buy one hundred thousand people. Why should he worry about a mere ten thousand. This thanksgiving night, he looked over at the wolf and thought of how it had grown more lifelike each day over the past year. Indeed, this day it had begun to look almost as if it was moving from the canvas. The sherry or the abundance of turkey in his belly, must be playing tricks on his eyes, he was so relaxed. This was certainly a good day for reflection. You can't win em' all, as the saying goes. It was terrible that his company had been caught dumping all those toxic wastes into a marshland. A fine, which amounted to net profits for a whole day of operation. But the most worrisome trifle was the possibility of jail time. That was frightening to Chris, but he had been fortunate enough to cover his tracks when it came to issuing memos to people. Another bunch of patsy's, idiots, and dull-brains! He was glad that he found out who the people were on his executive group who couldn't even cover their tracks enough to not be implicated in the crime. They deserved to go to jail if they were that stupid, Chris thought and sipped another mouthful of the fine amber liquid. It didn't matter that they were only doing what he told them to do, they should have had enough ability to think about how to cover their tracks. They should have figured out ways to prey on underlings as he had. It worked out better for the company too. No severance packages for them, no retirement benefits and no more high salaries. He broke from his thoughts when he heard something. A growl maybe? He looked over in the direction of the supposed noise. Nothing there, just the painting. Wolf eyes seemed to look past the mouse now. It was weird how alcohol can change depth perception like that. Something did not look right. He couldn't put his finger on it. The wolf seemed to be almost drooling, almost lunging. Barely, imperceptibly, the wolf seemed alive, as if it was feeding with his reverie. He felt the he was more in tune with the wolf in the painting. It knew what it wanted and would stop at nothing to get it. Chris smiled and took another sip of sherry. Pausing momentarily he wondered what the union members were eating tonight. What good was a union when you are so stupid as to believe you have ultimate protection from layoffs in the world of today? It is so easy to just move to someplace that need jobs so badly they will be willing to give all kinds of incentives and the new employees almost kissing your feet for a job…any job. He looked back into the fire. It was hot and it hungered for more fuel, more food to keep it going. For this food the fire gave Chris a show. It moved and caressed the walls of the hearth as it danced for him. Fire had danced for him once before, not long ago. It danced in a cabin last spring for him. It was not the same type of dance then. That dance was to consume a soul. He purposely made sure the fire would eventually hit a gas can, he looked at his victim, beaten and unconscious. The man would get a taste of his own blackmail and die in the process. Chris felt his own sexual tendencies were private. What right did some little peon have of asking for money to cover up a few small indiscretions? So he liked young boys. Could there be a crime in this? People had been doing this sort of thing for centuries and there should be no reason to stop. But blackmail? Yes, that was a crime. A punishment to fit the crime was his to dish out as the cabin fire roared to life. It danced, he fled. The crime could never be traced to him, he would see to that. A few well placed bribes, a couple of erroneous tips, and presto! Another patsy would take the rap for him and his quest to be powerful and strong like a wolf. He sipped at his sherry, feeling himself get thicker and thicker. His focus leaving, his breathing heavy. Where was that wolf? He tried to focus on the painting again but couldn't. Maybe he should finish this last drink and go to bed. When you can't even see something as large as a wolf in a painting, you know you've had enough. Tomorrow would be another day after all. He would go into work and figure his next move. Profits were up but he could make them higher. Maybe if he shut down that plant in Georgia. That might trim another thousand jobs and millions in liabilities. What was that noise behind him? He turned around and the wolf was there, poised to strike, its eyes centered on Chris. The wolf's mane and ears full out ready to attack. The wolf showed no mercy in its eyes and it was not compassionate to the man whose only crime was to venture too far away from human kindness. The last expression on Chris's face was one of shock and terror. The room was dark. The wolf had devoured another meal. After he cleaned himself he stalked out into the night, silent, ready to rend, ready to kill, ready to survive over other, smaller creatures. The police took in the crime scene. Old man Smith was bludgeoned and stabbed several times. They knew the murderer had to be one of many disgruntled, laid off workers but there would be so many people to interview. The case might never be solved. A year later, the executor of the estate sent possessions to be auctioned off, sold or otherwise disposed of. A painting was sold from among the possessions. It was a curiosity more than anything. It sold for a pittance. Why would anyone want a painting of a mouse looking at darkness from a tree branch? Maybe if there was some sort of animal attacking the mouse it would have lived up to the name it had been given. Nobody could understand why a mouse's nightmare would just be the dark surrounding it.

All written content © Casey Allen, 1998 - 2006