November 1st

Don't Corner the Rabbit

As you walk past the couch to the dining room, stacks of photos crowd the cushions like crooked teeth, some tall enough to reach the ceiling. Behind them, by the front door, is the clock you've seen around the house, the clock's face in place of the belly of a cartoonish purple rabbit. You squint to read the time—the way you strain your face makes it feel as though you have cotton stuffed in your ears—but all you can see on the clock is a blur of line, like string bunched in knots.

You leave it and walk through the hall. You've seen no one else in the house today; not Witch, Billy, or TVA. Maybe the rabbit wants to talk about that. Maybe it'll take off its head over tea, sigh, and say, "All right. The jig's up. You're free to go."

The photos on the walls have expanded to mirror—no, doorway size. The frames are bloated and gaping as if they want to swallow you whole, the image of a boy in a bear costume quivering in wait. You ignore them and keep walking.

The dining room looks eerily bare, not even the usual sad chandelier hanging above the table. At least the rabbit had set out utensils in both of your places. You wonder if the house is being stripped down, or under repair; maybe the jig really is up.

The rabbit is sitting on the right when you walk in. It doesn't bother to point you to your seat; you sit down across from it, and a twinge of amusement hits you, as if you're pretending to sit in on a hushed mafia meeting.

The faint light of the parlor outside is all that illuminates the room. When the rabbit lifts its head after a minute, one large shadow is cast over its eyes. Its voice starts out weary.

"I've been unfair to you, bunny."

You swallow back a loud laugh. Even if it does mean that, a whole lot of good that would do.

"I must let you go."

It takes a moment for that to hit you. You don't believe that. You want to, so badly, badly enough that a hot tear dares to well up in your eye at that simple sentence. But it can't be telling the truth. Your face scrunches in confusion.

"I...you'll..." Your voice is clogged—it annoys you so much that your other eye begins to tear up as well. "...let me go?"

"Of course." It lowers its head, and the shadow across its eyes stretches to the end of its muzzle. "There's just one small problem."

Oh.

Your tears are quelled in an instant. Your mouth goes dry, and your face that had been so tense before slackens at once in exhaustion. Something simmers in the pit of your stomach.

Before you can stop it, it boils up your throat and you stand up and slam your fists on the table.

"One small problem?!"

Rage runs fervidly through your veins; your limbs stutter and twitch with the urge to destroy whatever you can touch in this room. The rabbit stays still. You pound a fist on the table again, as if to get its attention.

"I—fucking of course there is, isn't there? You'll do anything to—!"

"You don't seem to have a home to return to."

Your ears and cheeks burn at that word: home. Though you know you shouldn't, you have no reason to, you're overcome with a rush of shame. You have to swallow a bubble in your throat to speak again.

"That's—that's none of your business. I didn't even tell you that I—"

"You didn't have to."

Something has shifted. The rabbit's voice has deepened, a garbled, underwater thrum. All other sound has been sucked out of the room; an eerie silence stamps the space around its words. You're stunned speechless.