Day Five-Seventy-Seven: Two become three

Oh, balls. I'm inside the house. I was not driven here by choice, but... I am inside the house.

I spent most of yesterday rationalizing my approach to the situation, hidden beneath this diary's opened pages. As far as I could see, I had two different paths I could take: 

A) Enter the house and attempt to rescue the rescuers on my own. 

B) Return to the Dauphine and seek help. I am uncertain, but I assume, given Dragomir's reaction to me, that at least one other person on that transport would be aware of my kind's level of intelligence. His wife, perhaps?

The more I reasoned, the more I concluded that B was the proper course of action. What could I possibly do to ward off the evil presence of spirits? I am a single regulator. Nay, worse, I am simply a rat. A rat that can write in diaries without using his paws, 'tis true, but nevertheless a rat. A circus sideshow exhibit at best. Surely a band of humans with combat experience could do better than I.

Yet for all the evidence that I would be better suited fleeing home, I hesitated. I couldn't help myself. For so long, now, I've hidden in the coattails of others, secretly unwilling to brave dangers on my own. I am small, yes, and I am feeble, but can not a rat be daring? Can not a rat take pride in his willingness to leap into danger in aid of his comrades? Can not a rat be a man?

More, can a rat not do what a platypus can? I'd never live it down if Plato discovered that I'd fled. He's surprisingly snarky when he's not nervous. Stupid Non.

So I paused. I waited. I fretted. I remained rooted in spot for hours, clouded by indecision. Such is the way of the cowardly who wish to be strong, lingering so long in dangerous situations that they become ever more dangerous.

That is how my new companion found me.

I am normally a keen creature. My heart may not be strong, but my ears and my nose seldom fail me. Yet I was so preoccupied by the question of 'Enter' or 'Flee' that I didn't notice the tumbling footfalls approaching my literary tent, and by the time the diary was plucked from over my head it was far, far too late to react.

"Die-wee!"

I rolled instinctively, my little ratty form propelling me away from danger, but it was too late as a second, grubby hand plucked me from the dirt -

"Wat!"

I squealed, prepared to bite, to attack, to defend myself from this abomination -

And it patted me. Harshly, roughly, with utter inexperience, but it patted me on the head. My fur stung for an hour afterward.

It was Fynn. Dragomir's youngest child held me aloft, smiling stupidly through a thin layer of mud and grime. He waved me around as though I were a toy, which, I think, is how he views most things in life. You should see what he does to his food at mealtime. 

I flailed my paws at him furiously, attempting to communicate something along the lines of 'Please, good sir, we must return to your home at once, as your mother is no doubt worried sick. Please, oh please, young master, do not heave me about so, I fear you may break my neck.' I don't think it worked, though - Fynn just giggled and smacked me against the diary in a clapping motion. Sigh.

Dropping the diary, he pointed at the house. "Oooo."

I didn't like the tone of his voice. I pointed back towards the jungle instead.

Fynn considered that. He looked at the house again, standing on tip-toes to peer past the front porch and into the darkened foyer. "Oooooooooo."

I gestured towards the house, then mimed slitting my own throat. I thought this would be a universal gesture of 'bad'.

Not for Fynn, apparently. I don't know what it means to him, but he lit up and began stumbling towards the entrance. "Ooooooo!" 

No! I cried, squeaking at the boy, nipping lightly at his fingers, surprised at the resiliency of his skin. No, no, no!

It was too late for me. Mounting the porch, Fynn ran headlong into the darkness. The only thing I could do was call out to the diary to follow, which, somehow, it did. Shortly after it entered the house, we were plunged into utter darkness as the doors snapped shut.

Funny, that. There weren't any bloody doors before.

We're huddled in a corner somewhere, frightened out of our minds. Fynn is bawling, possibly aware of the stupidity of his actions. He's clutching to me a little too tightly for my liking, and whenever I try to escape he cries all the worse. There are no sources of light.

We're trapped. We're trapped. And I suspect it's only a matter of time before this home's residents come looking for us.

Sincerely,

V the Fucked