Living Like a Mouse? How About a Lion?

A Lion Roars

You'd think after sitting through that miserable dinner I'd have had enough drama for one night, right? Nope. Apparently, I'm a glutton for punishment—or maybe I just have a flair for the dramatic. Either way, my night wasn't over yet. Oh no. Not by a long shot.

The moment I stepped out of the dining room, I felt the familiar tug of irritation gnawing at me. It wasn't enough that I'd endured their awkward silences and side glances; I also had to do it while using children's cutlery. Again. Honestly, they might as well have served my food in a baby's bowl and handed me a bib. And don't even get me started on the food itself—bland one minute, salty enough to kill a horse the next. Was this their way of punishing me for actually showing up?

If so, I was about to return the favor.

So, where do I go after a fun-filled family dinner? The kitchen, obviously. Because if there's one thing I'm certain of, it's that whoever is responsible for that abomination they called food is going to regret it. And if anyone thinks I'm some meek little mouse they can laugh at behind my back, they've got another thing coming.

I stride into the kitchen with purpose, the echo of my footsteps louder than usual in the narrow corridor. The clattering of dishes and idle chatter of the kitchen staff slowly fades as I approach. Good. They should be scared. They should be very scared.

I push the door open and walk in without bothering to knock. Why knock when I'm about to make an entrance no one will forget?

Of course, as soon as I step inside, all eyes turn to me. The kitchen staff freeze mid-motion, forks and spoons hovering over steaming pots, and knives suspended in the air like they're waiting for the other shoe to drop. Their expressions tell me everything I need to know—they didn't expect me to actually show up. But then again, no one ever expects the lioness to enter the den.

But here I am.

I walk straight to the long kitchen table and pick up one of the small, ridiculous forks they'd so generously set for me at dinner. Holding it up, I examine it with the kind of disdain normally reserved for actual vermin.

Me: "Is this a joke? Or did you mistake me for a toddler?"

The kitchen maids exchange nervous glances, but no one says a word. Cowards. The chief cook, though? Oh, he's got a special kind of nerve. He doesn't even flinch. In fact, he's got the audacity to smile. Smile. Like this is all one big joke to him.

Cook: "We figured it was appropriate for someone of your... stature."

Oh. Oh, so that's how it's going to be? Fine. Let's play.

Me: "My stature, huh?"

I let the fork fall to the table with a soft clink. My eyes narrow, and I feel the fire rising in my chest. They think they can humiliate me? Treat me like I'm some sort of amusement? The cold anger that's been simmering all night begins to boil over.

Me: "Well, if my stature is the problem, allow me to compensate."

Without another word, I pick up the nearest knife—a sharp, gleaming thing that looks like it's been freshly sharpened. Good. Very good. I feel the weight of it in my hand, and for a moment, I can't help but smile.

The maids gasp. One of them drops a spoon. I think I hear someone whispering a prayer. It's all very dramatic, and honestly, I'm living for it.

Then, in one swift motion, I slam the knife down onto the table with all the force I can muster. The blade sinks into the wood, quivering as it lodges itself deep in the center of the table.

The room goes dead silent. I don't need to say anything for them to understand—I'm not playing around.

Me: "Now, I don't know who thought it'd be a good idea to mock me at dinner, but let me make something clear."

I lean forward slightly, eyes fixed on the cook. His smile has vanished, replaced with a pale, wide-eyed stare. That's better.

Me: "I am not some pathetic mouse you can laugh at. I don't skitter around, afraid of shadows. No, if you push me—if you insult me—I'll push back. And trust me, you won't like it."

The maids are frozen in place, eyes darting from me to the knife, no doubt wondering if I'm about to snap completely. And honestly? I'm not entirely sure I won't. This house, this entire family—they all think they can push me around, treat me like I'm nothing. But they've forgotten one crucial detail.

Me: "I'm not a mouse. I'm a lion."

I yank the knife out of the table with a swift tug, the wood groaning in protest as I free the blade. The sound echoes in the kitchen, sharp and ominous. I could leave it there, I could walk out now and let them wallow in their fear. But no. I'm not done yet.

Me: "And if you want to keep your heads, I suggest you remember that."

I slam the knife back onto the table, this time flat, with a loud thud. They all flinch, as if I've actually attacked them.

Good. Let them be scared.

Cook: "W-we meant no offense, Miss Penelope..."

Me: "Oh, I'm sure you didn't. But here's the thing—your intentions don't matter. What matters is that you thought you could get away with it. You thought you could treat me like I'm some joke, like I won't notice or won't care. But let me tell you something—every time you insult me, every time you try to belittle me, you give me more reason to make your lives miserable."

I let the words hang in the air for a moment, savoring the way they tremble under my gaze. It's almost too easy, really. But after everything I've endured today, I deserve this. I deserve to let the lion out of the cage.

Me: "Now, I suggest you take extra care with tomorrow's meals. After all, I'd hate for another... misunderstanding to occur."

With that, I turn and walk toward the door, leaving the knife embedded in the table like a souvenir. No one dares move or speak as I make my exit. They're probably too busy praying I won't come back. But I will. Oh, I will.

Because tonight, I made one thing clear: I'm done hiding. Done playing the part of the scared, silent girl who cowers in her room. I am not their toy. I am not their mouse.

I am a lion. And with every chance I get, I'll roar.