Sinking Ship

When we drove back to the city, it was night. The streets seemed especially dark with no traffic lights and no street lamps. The houses, once illuminated with french chandeliers glittering through stained glass windows, were now macabre doll houses. Furniture and picture frames rotting, the homes were untouched. But then there were the holes in the roofs.

One house had two messages spray-painted on the outside. The first: In here with a shotgun, a dog, and an ugly woman. Help. The second: Still in here, the woman left me and I ate the dog. Help. "That's funny," I said to my friend as we walked by. Neither of us laughed.

Within six months, I had left New Orleans like a rat on a sinking ship. That was nothing new to me; I had abandoned it before. I had watched it drown sitting in front a television. I didn't even move back until the bodies had been removed, and I never stepped into the ninth ward; I fled the city as soon as I could.

Today, I wear a Fleur-de-Lis charm around my neck, a symbol declaring my devotion to New Orleans. But I know, on the inside, I'm only a rat.