It had somehow gotten into the apartment, and lay dying on the kitchen floor. It was still breathing, and every few seconds it would attempt to twist around, to somehow get up, as its tail slapped the tiles like a miniature bullwhip.
He stood there for at least five minutes, just gaping at the ending rat on the floor, until realizing he should probably put it out of its misery.
He was surprised at how fleshy the rat’s body felt as he drove the broom handle down
like hitting a small child
and was suddenly gripped with nausea, preventing him from landing a powerful enough blow. He cried a little after the fourth swing, when the hitherto silent rat actually squealed in despair.
He held the broom above his head, panting, crying, staring at the dead rat on the floor - a small puddle of blood slowly forming around its mouth - and took comfort in knowing that he could never be a killer. Not really. He could intellectually accept killing, maybe even understand it at some level. But he will never truly feel it.
