Sitting in the mud, the blind fool toyed with a half dead rat. At first it was the smell that had brought the beast towards the amalgamated carcass of the rat king. He stabbed his jagged walking stick into the pile while the final victim squirmed as its tail fell into the soft dirt, ripping a little as the pointed edge of the once-living hickory pierced the soft mud. The child squealed as it became clear the small size of the animal had kept it alive through the thrashing and tearing of the other putrid rats. The man did not care for children. 

Twisting his makeshift walking stick, the blind man enjoyed the noises from the rat. He reveled in the sensation. How long had it been since he had heard up close. Oft’ the terrors of the night would creep into his room. Their hunched back and soft demeanor, creating a villainous silhouette of a thief. Yet, this messenger from beyond the walls of his home would not take, rather it delivered gifts for the good behavior of the blind. Sliding its warm hands over the old man, the noises would caress his lonely face. It was all that could stave off the loneliness of a motherless life. 

The man loved his mother as he believed all did. She was gentle and kind. Her hands a comfort to his soul as she would hold him. His fondest memory, shared with none but himself to retain a semblance of ownership, was when she would cook for him. The smell of the juices from the meat, the seasoning of pepper and marinade would fill his heightened sense of smell long enough to mask those of the outside. The shit that penetrated the window and wood, soaking into the floorboards like a seeping vomit. She would always sing as she cooked. Another distraction for the poor friendless boy. A mix of tra and la would be all that he heard from his mother. Never a sound more. He began to think she had never been taught to speak, but he knew himself that neither had he. Therein lay the confusion.

Language was not a necessity to the man, but he still made noises. He would mimic the creaking of the dusted wooden floorboards beneath his calloused and splitting heels. Thunk, Thunk, Thunk, the man would exasperate. His old groans grew softer with age, but they were always audible. Yet his mother, silent as she was, became an enigma to the man who had never even heard her footsteps. The only noises the man ever heard were her song and himself. 

The delight in the sounds of tiny squeals from the trapped rat in front of him became a delight to his forsaken ear drums. He would twist his hickory left and right, feeling the vibration in his abandoned canal. The sounds became a delicacy as his mothers meat once had been. He missed meat. To the man it wasn't a matter of hunting or gathering. It just existed on his baren black table. The soot inevitably forcing a cough from his rough throat but never his mothers. There was never a question about the integrity of his meal. He knew not to ask why the blackened dusty, grimy, slithering meat would cake his esophagus dry and make him cough black speckled blood. He just knew that it was time with his mother. A time where the pain in his gut would fade softly before ravaging his insides and promptly seeping into the floorboards only to be remembered by the squelch that would reverberate from under his bare dirty feet. 

Had the other's in the village known of the rotten filth down guarding the swamp, they'd have shunned the poor bastard. But to him, it was all he knew. Now, months alone had picked away at his sanity. His mother lost long ago to the church and its cold damp interior. A monolith upon a grassy hillside, overseeing all of the village. Not even the blind could hide from God. 

Having enough, the blind man pierced his stick far into the dirt, severing the rat's tail, freeing it. He may have wondered if rats had souls had he known what either were. Yet as its frail starved body sank slightly into the mud from the force it mattered not, as the man believed he had done good again for the creeping gift bearer. The man would stay up restless the following night, waiting for the screams from outside his locked door. They were the only joys he had anymore. The only sensation worth having. 

As a knock rang from the broken door, its lock more an accessory than a tool, three men walked through the piles of shit into the man's room. He curled, sucking his dirtied finger in anticipation hearing a new sound. Excitedly, he waited for the caress and comfort of the hands he longed for so much, as new ones grabbed him by the arms. He was led up to the church on the hill and he knew now who the good man was. God would bring gifts to the faithful. To his people in need.

The blind man could not believe, as he was never taught of God nor the church, but in his final moments he understood two unanswered, unasked questions. Where did his mother get the meat before she disappeared, and why had she left him so long ago?