November 1st

The Drawing Room

‼️TW: Needles, blood, medical settings‼️

—

It's become routine by now. You take one step forward, the rabbit yanks you two steps back.

Oscar, you remember. You suppose you should call him Oscar now. Somehow, giving a name to that thing feels wrong. You've only ever encountered this elusive "him" in the dark, and with only the rabbit's face to match him to in your mind. The hair on his arm, the heaving of his ribs under your hand, his breath on your face—and now he has a name. Somehow, you wish you were back to night one, when you weren't even sure if there was a person living inside that suit. This is becoming too confusing.

Though on the bright side, the two of you seem to be approaching some kind of stalemate. If you can call that a bright side.

A truce, you decide instead. That sounds better. You and the rabbit have a truce. You have its name, it has...

Alright. It has everything over you.

The events of your dream haunt you the following days, as well as the chilling ecstasy that came after. You wonder, dangerously, if you can catch him out of the suit again and really hurt him. You do seem much more evenly matched when he isn't hiding inside that stupid rabbit. You could wrestle him to the ground again. Keep a kitchen knife inside your shirt, stab him over and over until that low, rumbly, confident voice fades into the gurgle of blood in his throat. The idea teases you until you're giddy. It's pointless, though. That would require such patience, such docility and coaxing that you're not sure you can stomach.

Please? I've been good. You nearly retch, imagining yourself placating it like that.

You're free to roam the halls after that night. Oscar seems to have taken your deal very seriously, as the rabbit has made itself scarce. He's taken you at your word that you won't break any rules—it's a kind of trust that you aren't particularly comfortable with. You tell yourself he's just trying to get your guard down, that he isn't stupid. Why does he keep hurting you, holding you down, then relinquishing control as if nothing's happened? He's been quick to threaten, sure, but at the end of the day he seems to forgive you so easily. Is it...love?

You grimace at that word. Absolutely not. If he "loved" you in the slightest you would've been free long ago. Is he just a wishful thinker? Is he hoping with every punishment dealt, every promise made, that he's slowly molding you into what he wants you to be? Does he think giving you all these chances will soften you enough to change you?

Is it that he really is that stupid?

—

Upstairs has intrigued you for some time. Before now, it was a problem for future you. Now you are future you. The rabbit has been handling you with such leniency for several days now; it can't hurt you for daring to explore a bit.

The stairs are against the wall outside the parlor, flanked by the beginning of the hall leading down to the cellar, and the hall to the dining room. It's completely dark up there. The wooden newel is old, grayed, and when you put your hand on it you collect a layer of dust. You try the first step with the toe of your shoe, stepping gently. It doesn't creak. Odd.

You lift your other foot and shift your full weight onto the step, waiting for something to bend. To break. It doesn't. Considering the rabbit has roamed every inch of this house, you don't find this surprising. It must be far heavier than you are. You start ascending the stairs, slowly. You give a thought to putting a hand on the railing before the image of black mold and fungus on the wood's underside flashes in your head. You grimace and keep your hand to your side.