Dedicated to TheOldUnseenGuyHere, whose prompt was a mouse bench pressing in a mousetrap. May have got side-tracked along the way, but found it really interesting to write. As always, hope you enjoy! 

Logan opened his eyes blearily. The growing pain in his back, his dead arm; it was all too familiar. The couch, he was on the couch again. He rolled over, pushing the empty whiskey bottle that dug into his back onto the floor. The leather couch clung to his skin. He closed his eyes just as his stomach began to churn. Shit. He staggered towards the bathroom. Logan heaved, and vomit splattered the porcelain toilet bowl.

Logan stared out of the window, trying to ignore the smell of rejected alcohol invading the air. Outside, the dying crescent of the moon hung in a sky of empty stars. They swam across his vision nauseatingly. He screwed his eyes shut, but the feeling didn't subside. Logan retched again. He clung to the toilet bowl with shaking hands until the world stopped swaying. Logan groaned, his throat burning, and dragged a hand across his mouth. His wedding band was smooth against the stubble of his chin.

He staggered along the corridor to a bedroom that taunted him with an achingly empty bed. The corridor's floorboards were thick with dirt that clung to the bottom of his socks. He couldn't be arsed sweeping every stinking day. What was the point? The filthy orange dust would just blow in again tomorrow on the ceaseless summer wind. Logan cursed, his foot colliding with some Lego that was concealed under the dirt. The pain of the plastic was nothing compared to the anguish of knowing that Thomas would never play with it again. Logan retreated to his room and switched the lights off, leaving him in darkness. Alone. He was so crushingly alone.

Logan slumped onto the bed under the windowsill, where empty bottles stood as sentinels, guarding the barren landscape outside. The steadily growing line was almost complete. He hoped sleep would bring solace, but knew it wouldn't. God knows what would, but it would have to be a lot stronger than what he'd been drinking. Sleep invited dreams, and his dreams haunted him. He'd wake up reaching across to the empty left side of the bed, expecting it to be still warm, waiting for the sounds of her shower to fill the house. The realization crushed him every morning.

Tiny, fetid footprints scurried across the ceiling, their claws scraping against the newly replaced rafters. Mice. Filthy vermin. It was a miracle he'd made it to the bathroom without losing a toe to a mousetrap: there were two at the door, and a further three along the corridor. It was only good luck that he'd missed the rat trap by the toilet. God had an interesting sense of humour when it came to whose miracles he would grant.

The vermin moved above his head. Christ. It wasn't as if he didn't try to get rid of them, but they clung harder to life than anything he'd met. Even those scumbag cockroaches that had infested the floorboards when they'd first moved in. When he'd found out about the accident, alcohol had numbed him, but now it was barely a film over the turmoil that raged beneath. The emptiness of the house scared him. Once it had been home to laughter, now it was deathly. Like the remains of some desiccated corpse, exposed to the blistering sun, its skin taut against lifeless ribs. There had been one tree on the entire property, until he'd hacked it down last week, of course. One crappy tree. What were the chances she'd plough the Range Rover into it?

A loud snap in the corridor pulled him from his half-conscious state. Must've caught one of those bastards. The satisfaction drew him out of bed. He stumbled unsteadily into the corridor, using his arm for balance. The trap was under the table. Ignoring the Final Notice bills that spread across the table like weeds, he knelt down. To his surprise, the mouse was still alive. It was splayed out in the trap, its paws wrapped around the metal bar like a suffocating bench presser. The mouse struggled beneath the weight of the silvery blade, wriggling in vain to escape. Logan swore he could hear the mouse's terrified breaths. He felt a sudden affinity to this mouse. Trapped, like him. Alone, like him. He reached down, intending to release it from the trap. The sight of his wedding band stopped him. Logan scowled. If he wasn't worthy of miracles, no way in hell this mouse was.

Logan looked callously into the mouse's eyes, holding their frantic stare.

He pressed the bar down.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, feel free to comment and/or vote. Feedback welcome. =)