The alley was dark, damp, and reeked of disappointment. My tiny feet clattered against the cracked pavement as I ran for my life, a stolen piece of bread clutched between my teeth.
Behind me, the butcher's furious cat was gaining speed, its green eyes glowing with the kind of hunger that made my little heart tremble. In the distance, the butcher's voice rang out, laced with anger.
"Filthy scum! If I catch you, I'll turn you into soup!"
Soup? Over a crusty piece of bread? Seriously? The man acted like I had stolen his mother's jewelry. What kind of cheapskate chases a rat just for a stale loaf?
I rounded a sharp corner and squeezed under a broken fence, my ribs scraping against the rough wood. The cat screeched behind me, too big to fit through. Ha! Take that, you oversized furball! I hadn't survived all these years on the streets for nothing.
Finally, I reached my hideout—a humble plasterboard den inside some poor man's apartment. I lived here with a group of rats, and we all knew the tragic story of the human who owned this place.
Five years ago, he had dreams of getting married. Each year, he saved up a decent sum, and by the end of the year, inflation would come along and chop it in half. "Inflation" was a word I heard on TV once. When I asked Bonnie—the educated rat—what it meant, he admitted he didn't know. That really upset me. If even Bonnie didn't know, what hope was there for the rest of us?
But one thing was certain: if the man ever managed to afford a bride, we'd be dead within a week. The moment a new wife moved in, she'd hunt us down like assassins in a spy movie. In a way, inflation was the only thing keeping us alive. A double-edged sword, I suppose.
And speaking of how things change over time… the streets were getting worse. Poverty was swallowing the city whole. Once, I had a friend named Alvaro—a noble rat with fine whiskers and a love for adventure. A kind girl used to feed him scraps. Years later, when she grew up and hard times hit, she caught him and ate him.
Horrible story, I know.
I let out a sigh, slumping against the cold wall of my hideout.
"This is my life. Stealing. Surviving. Living on scraps." I stared at the rock-hard bread in my paws. "But is this really the life I want? No."
I had heard rumors—whispers of a better world. A place where rats lived in luxury. A place where they didn't have to steal or run for their lives every five minutes. A place where humans actually bought them cheddar cheese.
Cheddar. Cheese.
I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining that sweet, creamy delicacy melting on my tongue. But reality had other plans.
With a resigned sigh, I bit into my stolen bread. It was as awful as I expected.
"There has to be something better than this," I muttered. "Somewhere far, far away."
But for now, all I had was this rotten bread… and another night of barely surviving.