Squeaky Little Angels

When we were kids, my sibling and I raised guinea pigs - soft, round little creatures that squeaked like broken whistles whenever we brought them greens. Cabbage, grasses, anything leafy. They never stopped munching, like happiness lived in every bite.

They were tame, trusting. We cradled them like babies, their warmth pressed against our chests. We thought they were happy. Maybe they were, until we weren’t gentle enough. Until we let other kids, kids like us, toss them around like toys. I didn’t know they could cry.

But in my dream, they spoke to me. Not with voices, but like quiet thoughts in my head. They told me they didn’t like it. That it hurt. That they cried when no one was watching.

I woke up sobbing. And I remembered.