Edgar the Gerbil

A tale of childhood tragedy...

At times, I think back to my old friend Edgar. Edgar was a gerbil, you see. I had him for about seven months, but he was dead for five of those. Edgar was very playful, but after two months, he died. He just lay there, not moving. He wouldn't play. I didn't want to let him go... When my last gerbil died, my daddy took him away from me and buried him so that I couldn't see him anymore. So I did the only thing I could think of; I hid him in a small box that I covered with tape and carried him everywhere I went. I told my daddy Edgar had gotten out of his cage and I couldn't find him.

At night, I would put him under my pillow so he wouldn't get cold. I would talk to him and pretend he were still alive; in my mind he was as alive as the day I first got him. I was only five; I didn't understand death that well. I only knew that I didn't want to let him go.

Then on one Sunday morning, I came down to go to church. It was autumn, so mommy was checking to make sure I was dressed warmly. She noticed the small box in my coat pocket and asked about it, but I didn't answer. Then daddy came over and siezed the tattered box and ripped it open. He stared at me in disbelief.

"This is terrible, son. What have you done?" he said. He then threw the box, with Edgar inside, into the fireplace. The flames crackled mockingly as the box was turned to ash. I screamed. Daddy just laughed at me and said, "What's the matter, boy, it's just a dead gerbil."

That's why I did it. That's why I cut my father's throat in his sleep.
THE END

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