Every day, Monday through Thursday, during my hour-long lunch, I walk. This patrol is just around the school building and college building site, which takes me ten or twelve minutes of brisk walking to go all the way around. Every day, I listen to my music, and occasionally stop to talk to passer-bys or folk who live here.

It seemed like the usual today. I was actually running late to class – literally. On my way back into the school parking lot, I spotted something particularly furred…

… It was a field mouse that had been crushed. To be honest with you, it was not that “bad” of a sight; in fact, it was almost perfectly intact. The mouse’s back legs and pelvis bone had been crushed, but not badly. If I had not paused to study it more closely, I would not have known that it wasn’t alive (though the fact that it was unmoving, and the small splattering of red was a bit of a “dead” give-away. Ha-ha.)

The rest of the creature was untouched, and it appeared as though it had been recently hit… And by recently, I mean “within the past thirty minutes”. I started walking away, but simply couldn’t bring myself to leave it.

You see, I have a soft spot for animals. Likewise, I hold some sort of odd tradition of burying any dead animals that I can. And I planned to continue this tradition here.

I am also exceedingly hemophobic, not to mention horrified of death – in any matter. (Seriously. I shout at my brother in terror when he kills so much as a cockroach.)

So basically, I carried a dead, still bleeding mouse’s corpse two streets down to a space with softer mud that I could bury it in, swallowing my tears. Then ran back to class, tried to get a hug from my brother, failed, and spent the past twenty minutes sobbing and scrubbing my hands raw in a bathroom stall.

And as I finish writing this, I realize that I still have some of its blood staining my coat’s sleeve.