"So the rat's food is better than that of the best chef?".
A brown-headed young adult, no older than twenty three, sat cross-legged on his bed, the glow of his laptop lighting up his face.
His brown eyes were focused on the screen, watching the final scenes of Ratatouille. The room around him was quiet, posters of video games and old movies on the walls, and a half-eaten bag of chips beside him.
He leaned forward as the food critic— Ego, took the first bite.
Then it happened.
The critic's eyes widened. The music swelled. Ego dropped his pen and started eating faster, like he couldn't get enough of the food. The teenager raised an eyebrow.
He scoffed and shook his head.
"So you're telling me that a rat can cook better than a human?". He said out loud, even though no one else was in the room.
He picked up a chip and waved it at the screen. "What level of IQ does a rat need to have, to be able to comprehend the concept of cooking".
He let out a laugh, not a cruel one, but one of disbelief.
"And not just any food. The best food the critic's ever had? Come on."
'I don't want to sound racist, but this is too much'.
🎵 My milkshake brings all the girls to the yard and they're like it's better than yours 🎵
The sudden sound from his phone made him flinch. He turned his head, suspicion tightening his brow.
'When was the last time I even heard my ringtone?'. He couldn't remember.
It wasn't that he didn't have family or friends who called him— It was just that they only called when he got paid. And the fact that he lost his job two weeks prior was no news to them either.
He watched as the phone rang a total of four times before stopping, he didn't even know who was calling and he didn't even care.
He turned back to his laptop, reaching for the touchpad— But before he could resume the movie, a message flashed across the screen.
[Bella — Sam, I'm home alone, and I was hoping you could stop by and… you know… get cozy.]
Sam froze, his eyes widened and for a moment he didn't breathe.
Then he shot up from the bed so fast that the laptop slid off his lap, hit the edge of the bed, and crashed onto the floor beneath the table.
He didn't even look at it. His heart was racing. His thoughts were a mess.
'Bella'.
The only girl he'd ever loved and it never worked out— he wanted her.
She wanted a guy with a real job, someone who didn't spend his nights watching cartoons and anime, someone who took life seriously. Not a dreamer.
He tugged on a t-shirt. Fumbled with his pants zipper.
"Come on, I'm about to get laaaidddd—"
The zipper came up— too fast, his nuts were in the way.
He collapsed, a second silent scream locked in his throat, tears flooding his eyes. Crippled on the floor, staring up through the blur—
The message still glowed from his screen.
'Damn it'.
He steeled himself. Stood up, groaning. Zipped carefully this time. He wore his clean sneakers, tied a scarf around his neck then he limped to the door.
"Just great." The elevator was dead.
'Then the stairs it is'. He grimaced, he always hated the stairs.
By the time he reached the ground floor, he was winded, sore, and of course— it was snowing.
"Did my luck die after that text?". He muttered. Either that or his luck took a sick day, he looked back up the towering building.
"No way I'm going back up."
Then he spotted an umbrella resting by the wall. He hobbled over, scooped it up—
And stared straight into a security camera.
"Don't look at me like that. I fully intend to return it."
As he stepped into the snow, cold wind slapping his cheeks, Sam squinted ahead. Bella's house wasn't far— just a couple of blocks from his apartment. He shoved his right hand into his pockets and pushed forward, limping slightly from his earlier zipper tragedy.
He turned a narrow alley to cut the distance.
That's when he saw it.
A truck— huge, fast, out of place— was barreling down the alley straight toward him. Its tires screeched, skidding on the icy road. The driver's face was pale behind the windshield, hands jerking the wheel desperately to veer away.
Sam froze.
Then his body finally snapped into motion.
He dove to the side, landing hard in a snowbank as the truck roared past him, just inches away. The wind it kicked up slapped his face as it disappeared around a corner.
He stayed there for a second, kneeling in the snow, heart pounding so loudly he could hear it echo in his head.
"Motherfucker… not today". He breathed, blinking rapidly.
'I am not going to get hit by a truck today of all days. The day I'm going to get laid. Ain't nobody got time for that.'
The umbrella had flown from his hand and vanished somewhere in the snow, but he didn't care. He got up, brushed the snow off his jeans, and kept walking.
Eventually, he made it to Bella's place.
He stood in front of her apartment door, heart still racing—not from the cold or the near-death, but because he was really here.
He texted her.
[I'm at the door.]
The reply came seconds later.
[Come right in, it's not locked.]
He grabbed the handle, pushed the door open, and stepped inside. The warm air wrapped around him immediately. As he walked in, he yanked off his shoes— just in time for his pinky toe to slam squarely into the doorframe.
"Argh! Mother—"
He bit his tongue. The pain was sharp, but he pressed forward, hobbling deeper into the apartment.
The place was warm and modest. The hallway opened up into a living room with dim lighting and soft cushions. Wooden flooring creaked underfoot. There was a faint scent of vanilla in the air. To the side, a narrow staircase curled upward, the steps carpeted in faded maroon fabric.
His phone buzzed again.
[Last room]
He glanced up the spiral staircase. He muttered some incomprehensible words, probably cursing at the concept of stairs, and began climbing.
He started to imagine, he had high hopes that he would, last he had to. Years of gaining experience from his phone would surely come in handy here.
His foot came down on something small and round. It shifted under him, and his balance vanished.
His phone flew from his hand. A flash of plastic in the corner of his eye— a toy truck flipping into the air.
His body tilted backward.
His eyes widened.
Then— Crack.
His head hit the staircase hard, blinding pain shut through his entire being, before everything turned black.