Monday, June 2, 2008

To the second mouse I shall be dissecting this afternoon

You were sleeping when I dropped by your cage. That was four days ago. You were sleeping like a baby, completely unaware that I was peering at you from the wire mesh, until I grabbed you by the tail to check your belly.

I can’t believe how strong you were. I half-expected you to weaken after we moved you to a new facility. You see, the mouse room was repainted last week. We just didn’t want you to get choked by the paint fumes.

Today, I ask for your forgiveness. I’m not sure if you realize how difficult a situation I am in right now.

I’m not so sure if it’s easier the second time around—the procedure, I mean. Somehow, it still gives me the creeps—the thought of sacrificing innocent lives—all in the name of science. But I will have to do it, not so much because I want to, but because I have no other choice.

If only you could tell me your last wishes, I would gladly do them. But hearing you speak out loud would make your defenseless screeching and painful screaming a million times harder to bear.

I will miss you, Marie.



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