The house mouse (standard:horror, 5172 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Feb 24 2011	Views/Reads: 3157/2108	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
(ADULT CONTENT) Why has Allan suddenly got a sexual urge to use a razor blade and a live mouse?

He was still bitter, and couldn't quite understand why she had ended
their relationship, even though it was two weeks since she had left the 
message on his mobile phone. Basically, she had met a local roofer who 
had promised her everything he could offer, leaving Allan Hawthorne 
hanging by a piece of string. He was driving home in his eight-year old 
Nissan skyline at 16:02 after a two hour ‘stakeout' outside the 
roofer's house where he knew Isabel White to be. She never came out, 
and he guessed she knew he was there. Allan had been there several 
times over past few days, basically approaching a stalking level in the 
vain hope she would walk out and throw her arms around him and cry that 
she was sorry. 

For six years he had been married to Raquel Firbank, until he too simply
severed their relationship by text to go with Isabel. Now he was 
resentful that it was he on the receiving end, dropped like a stone 
down a well when a better model came along. 

He still loved Isabel, but ruminations around the back of his mind told
him that his hopes were fading. She was smitten with ‘Timbo' until 
perhaps somebody else caught her eye. 

She wasn't the most attractive of women. In fact, an internet ‘hot or
not' rating, if she'd been on would have probably made her a three out 
of ten. She was one of those women that never seem to be striking at 
all. Throughout her teenage years, and twenties, she was always seen as 
‘frumpy'. Basically overweight and approaching ugly. There were far 
more unattractive people out there of that age, and she would not have 
looked out of place in their company. Raquel would have rated a six on 
the internet. She had taken pride in her appearance, and whilst 
slightly overweight, and not ugly, she was at least semi-attractive. 

Allan was 47, small for his age at 5ft 2inches, always had a greasy
complexion, and had thick black, wavy hair which each morning he would 
always gel. He wore a simple cheap white shirt, and simple cheap 
trousers taken from the bargain bin of the local discount clothes 
store. He worked part-time as a delivery man for ‘Sakara' pizza 
take-away. 

For Raquel, the text which stated that their marriage was over, hit her
like a bullet to the head. She had loved Allan. He had been everything 
to her, and for him to simply start seeing another woman meant the end. 
She had taken an overdose of paracetamol, enough to kill a horse, and 
was found by him slouched in the armchair, her wedding ring which she'd 
had inscribed with ‘together forever' clutched in her hand. It was only 
a few days later that he'd found it within him to shed any tears. He 
was more taken with Isabel, and when he'd been ‘let go', he'd cried a 
lot more. 

“Who does he think he is?” he said to himself, to his reflection in the
rear-view mirror as though it would answer him. He didn't talk aloud to 
himself often, and when he did it was because he was angry or upset. 
“Closing the fuckin' curtains on me. He knew I was there. He knew”. He 
shook his head as he drove along the M4 to Swindon from Winterbourne. 
“Leavin' me out there in the cold. If he tries anything, I'll fuckin' 
‘ave him”. He shook his head again at his reflection. 

After half an hour he was entering Swindon, and found himself turning
left along a main road lined on both sides by bustling shops. “What am 
I doing down here?” he asked himself. “I don't come this way”. Isabel, 
Timbo, he thought, making me do it. He found himself suddenly with a 
growing erection, and reached down to rub his crotch. “What the...?” 
Over to the left, he saw a small pet shop, with a lot of its goods 
spilling out onto the pavement. He focused himself, gripped the 
steering with both hands and pulled onto the kerb. Something about that 
pet shop made him stare in fascination at it whilst rubbing his crotch 
again. “Fuck, I'm driving home, that's what I was doing. Why am I here? 
I don't want a fucking pet”. Yet, he found himself leaving the vehicle 
and walking across to the shop, a full erection now straining against 
his zip. He flushed slight red with embarrassment and entered. “What am 
I doing here?” he whispered, walking past bags of bird seed, pet 
vitamins, and dried doggy chunks. He saw tropical fish that needed 
their tanks cleaning. On the back wall were cages containing all types 
of domestic birds from Zebra finches to lovebirds. He was never a lover 
of animals, preferring to eat them, but he looked on with distaste at 
the prison cells they were kept in. 


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