Bunny

siX

The auburn-haired person struggled at the door, missing the keyhole every time, shaking hands fumbling more and more with every failed attempt. A small mutter about "too much coffee" escaped, perhaps an excuse as to why everything about the person seemed tired, unkempt, and frazzled.

 Finally the key slid in and the lock turned audibly. The door opened and the smell of the apartment inside floated out, assailing the younger one with memories that were better left locked away. Now the older one wasn't the only one who was shaken. The door closed behind them and there was no movement from either of them. 

 The auburn-haired one looked at the other's face quizzically. "Well, your room is over there." A gesture towards the back of the place and a somewhat exasperated expression accompanied the statement. 

 A small shake of the head was all the reply given. 

 Already the older one wasn't paying attention anymore, bustling around the place tidying up, picking up the little things that littered the floor. The pencils that were not to be touched were gathered up and placed on the table, next to the half-emptied tubes of oil paint that had long since begun to dry out and had left splotches of color on the tablecloth. These stains were not likely to come off in the washing machine, and it could already be imagined that there would be a tantrum and string of curses when this was realized. The big easel at the far end of the living room was somewhat crooked, and was straightened out, and the sketches that littered the floor were piled on one of the couches with the others.

 This was an unusual display, as cleaning was generally disregarded in that home, as was evidence by the fact that the couches had not held anything other than drawings and paintings in many years. This betrayed the discomfort of the older one, who usually had no problem with clutter. Or maybe it was because of the realization that if anyone were to clean up, it would be none other, since the younger one had never been allowed to touch anything in that room, even if it was a single pastel lying on the floor, for fear of some vague threat of "messing things up."

 There was nowhere else to go than the bedroom. Silently, unobserved, the younger occupant of the home left the scene of the strange, frantic cleaning, and went towards the plain white door that designated the end of the realm of mess and art, and the beginning of a small bubble that the other one had never gone into, not even when the younger one was a baby. 

 The crib had always been in the living room, the single bedroom of the apartment having been left as a half-finished nursery, a painful reminder of the other parent that had run off late into the second trimester. Throughout the child's early years, many had been the times where a longing hand had been placed on that white door, as if to open it, but it had remained sealed. 

 Around age six was when, starting to outgrow the sleeping bag placed under the big oak table of the living room, it had been declared that now the kid was self-sufficient, and should get out of the way. This could have been because of the night terrors and the amount of kicking and rolling that happened at night that nearly damaged some of the artwork, as much as it could've been about independence and coming of age, but in any case, the door was finally opened after years of wondering. 

 The parent wasn't there to assist in unsealing nearly seven years' worth of history in that room, having instead gone outside to smoke a cigarette, giving the parting advice of "figure it out, you're old enough." The small, chubby hand had pushed at the door, first timidly, then with all the young body's strength, because over time the paint from the door frame had stuck to the one on the door, and when the door finally broke loose, with a large exhale it spat out large amounts of dust, leaving the six-year-old coughing and sputtering. 

 Finally the room was breached, and after managing to yank a grimy window open, light filtered through to show a room that looked like sadness. There was a small, wooden crib in a corner, with a hanging mobile that had lost its color over time. The walls had been halfway painted yellow, the other half an ugly grayish color that might have once been white. Paintbrushes, plastic sheeting, and pieces of lumber had been left on the floor. 

 The room was utterly uninhabitable, and true to the parent's word, the child got absolutely no help in fixing it. For a few years, until the older one got used to the idea, the two of them pretended that the room didn't exist. To the day, the auburn-haired one still slept in a sleeping bag in the living room. 

 So there was the door, again feeling the light touch of a hesitant hand that was thinking about someone that it had lost. For a second, moving back to the living room and never having to face the thought of Bunny again seemed almost tempting, but Reason spoke up, and the thin hand pushed the door open. 

 It had changed in the last ten years since it had first been opened, and was now painted a shade of reasonably clean-looking white throughout. There was even furniture; a small, modest bed with a striped comforter, and a few posters on the walls. It was an average room now, which was a great accomplishment considering what it had once been.

 Now it held more than just pride at the fruits of self-sufficiency. The place smelled like Bunny, though Bunny hadn't been there enough for this to be reasonable, and maybe it was a trick of the mind, yes, it was definitely a trick of the mind, but that didn't make it go away. 

 Head spinning, looking for a place to collapse onto that wasn't the splintery wood floor, the shaky legs made their way to the bed. But it wasn't soft as was expected, in fact, there was an object on the bed. Curious fingers grabbed it and pulled it towards the eyes that were squinting in the semidarkness. Curiosity soon turned into recognition, then panic, and terrible, blinding pain. It was a pink notebook with a rabbit on the cover. 

 The auburn-haired person hadn't even finished putting all the stray paintbrushes in a coffee mug when the younger one appeared, tears streaming down both cheeks, blubbering incomprehensible things. No time was wasted in calling the hospital again. 

 "Dr. Melton? She's going crazy!"