Death of a Mousington

My dear Paula,
I’m tired of this life. I cannot begin to apologize to you. I could never bring home the cheese to treat you like the princess you are. I know of your affair with Radcliffe; it does not bother me. He can provide for you in ways that I could not.

This of course has nothing to do with why I’m doing this. I’m sick of living this lie.
I’ve a confession to you my love; Cheesewick H. Mousington is not my true name.
I am not the mouse you fell in love with all those weeks ago. I am not a mouse at all.

I am a rat.

I was the runt of my litter, and my parents thought it best if I was raised as your kind is raised. I was adopted by the caring Mousington family, who have taken me in all these years. However, I cannot stand this lie any longer.

You’ll find my body in the mousetrap the Stevensons left behind the refrigerator.

Do not mourn me, Paula. Your kind has always taken pity on me, much as my own kind has always given me their scorn.

I love you my dear. Try not to eat the children.

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