Drifter

The Rabbit

***

She drifts intermittently through the house, leaving dust on all the surfaces, and squeezing the walls together. I don't remember when she moved in, or a time when she wasn't here, whispering words of comfort in my ear and ridding my life of 'bad influences', as she calls them. She reminds me that the only safe place in the world is our house. And I believe her.

The curtains are always closed and the door bolted and locked. It is always just the two of us - she makes sure of that.

The mask she never takes off seems permanently sewn to her skin, and I never ask about it. It is an eerie recreation of a rabbit, much like my first pet, the one who taught me about the most inevitable concept of our melancholic lives: death. The mask is lined with clear, ivory fur, and holds round depthless eyes. Her slender white ears point up to the sky when she is pleased - which is frequently, nowadays. The image has seared itself into my brain and I have learned to associate it with safety.

She teaches me about independence from everyone else, and dependence on her. "You'll always need me. That's just how it is now."

Most days we sit in silence, though it isn't awkward. When we're apart, even for short periods of time, she always wants to know where I have been, and who I have spoken to. She insists on replaying even the most inconsequential conversations I might have with others. And she picks up on everything. Every slight detail - expressions, words, the roaming of restless eyes - becomes a reason to suspect I am hated. That people think I'm strange, or not worth wasting time on. I don't want to listen to her words anymore, to the warnings she issues with so much concern in her voice. Please just stop...

But she continues.

This, she tells me, is her way of reminding me how dangerous it is to leave the walls of our home. "All they do is judge you," she insists. "As soon as you turn your back, they'll be whispering and laughing."