Another death.

First, the wonderment: Death, or the presumption of it? Second, the confirmation. The cold, relentless embrace of realisation, the feeling of world’s harsh reality wrapping around the face like plastic garbage bags. Third, the reaction: stone indifference, or tears, or shock, or uncompromised disgust.

Shock. And indifference, this time. A mingling crawl of disgust somewhere, because it is a gutter-hole death, and because the only thing on my mind was how to tell the father.

Wore gloves. Removed body. Put it on newspaper. Rigor mortis had settled. Looked like it was on a mid-sprint. Eyes half-opened. Still dark, still emotionless. Still exuding a helpless feature - something frail, something small.

Wrapped it up in plastic bag. TESCO. Dad took care of the rest.

I’m starting to feel like I’ve seen it all. And then, knowing that I haven’t, I started wondering if I’ll see it till the time I see mine.

Probably not. For one, I won’t rear any more rabbits if I can help it.

The air of black omens. A permeated smog that curled with the cigarette smoke, that swirled with the ceiling fan. That settled on the furniture and the hair, that adumbrated the mind like a veil, like a shade.


A black rabbit in the gutter.