As I walked inside my front door, my parents could hear the squeak it made when somebody closed it. They questioned why I had dirt under my fingernails; I pointed to Emma with confidence. Since she killed something of mine, it was only fair for her to explain. Emma knew the whole story; she knew what she did wrong.
It was a fall morning, and I was waiting for my friend Emma to arrive. We were family friends, ever since I was born. When she knocked on my door I wasn’t surprised, I always assumed it was her. She was still at my house, but this reason was different. She wanted to see the new hamster I bought about two weeks ago. When I bought it, the store manager insisted that I wait for the original shipment of hamsters, but I didn’t listen. I bought it. And I brought it home and put him in his cage, and he seemed to enjoy the two weeks of being my pet.
Until that night.
Emma begged to clean him, and by that, I mean, she wanted to put him underwater. Of course, I didn’t let her, an animal that small didn’t need to get drowned with water. We argued back and forth, and I got tired of fighting. I needed water. I ran into my kitchen and got both Emma and me an ice-cold glass of water, the water as cold as Antarctica. And then I quickly hurried back to my room. And suddenly I saw her, Emma was picking up My Hamster. And not only was she picking My Hamster up, but his fur looked drenched in water.
“Emma, why is his fur wet?” I questioned.
“Uhh.” She was like an alligator with its mouth wide open.
“I don’t know.” she stupidly responded. I clenched my fist together, feeling like the Hulk.
“Emma, WHAT did you do?!” I yelled.
“I um, put hairspray on him,” She answered in a nervously shaky voice. I said nothing to her and rolled my eyes and took my hamster, and put him in his cage.
“If I even see you take a glance at him, then you’re sleeping outside,” I said in a rude tone. A few hours passed, and Emma and I made “amends.” I walked over to his cage to check on him. I saw him lying there, upside down.
He was dead.
(“Sorry”). Emma whispered. I knew she didn’t mean it. I could feel her hovering over my shoulder, making a scared face. It was late at night, so I decided to leave him in his cage until morning. I lied in bed, covering my face with a big fluffy pillow so I could block out anything Emma wanted to say to me. I slowly fell asleep and woke right up to the bright sunlight reflecting off my mirror. I was thinking and knew what I had to do; I had to bury him. Emma opened up my supply cabinet and struggled to put on blue latex gloves.
“I am not touching him; I don’t want to get a disease,” she told me.
“Whatever, do what you want,” I said,
I picked him up with an old faded towel and slowly walked out my worn-out brown front door and down my steps and walked on the curvy sidewalk and decided to bury him next to another living thing of mine that I hoped Emma wouldn’t kill. A tree. I watched as Emma tiredly dug a hole large enough to cover him up. I placed him down into the hole Emma dug, and it seemed like he was falling onto a cloud of marshmallows. Emma watched as I covered the dry dirt over him, sinking like quicksand. I stood up and put my hand, over my heart. I played music on my phone and said some prayers. My eyes filled up with water, and every time I blinked, I could feel the warmth of my tear trickle down my cold skin. I was thinking about death and knew that no one lives forever. Or how they choose to die.