You Are A Rabbit

You are a rabbit. Your mother is everything a rabbit should be: her fur is soft and white; the curve of her back is smooth and graceful; her nose is pink and her eyes are red and her ears are long. You look just like her, a perfect copy, and her neighbors (//your// neighbors) congratulate her. What a good little rabbit you're going to be! She holds you in her arms and beams at the thought. Your home is warm and safe, and you're loved very much. [[I am a rabbit.|start 2]]

Life in the burrows is peaceful. In the dark and cool of the earth beneath the forest floor, you have everything a rabbit could ever want: the water is fresh down here, and food grows green and thick about the mouth of your home, and the soil is soft beneath your paws. Your neighbors are your friends and your friends are your neighbors. Your mother hugs you good morning and kisses you goodnight, and you're happy. [[Something is wrong.|start 3]]

They're small, at first. A pair of bumps behind your shoulders — a bad slouch, maybe, or some unruly fur, or your bones poking through your back. Your mother frets; she always does, where you're concerned. Is it something in your diet, your routine? You're unsure what to make of it. It's not as if it hurts, after all; they feel as much a part of you as your legs and your ears, you think as you waggle them back and forth. Though she tries to hide it, you see the way her brows furrow when you shift your shoulders. You see the way she stands to block you from sight, ushers you a bit too quickly past people in the street. You put on a cloak to cover them. [[They keep growing.|start 4]]

The moments you remove your cloak are few and far between. Tonight, alone in the quiet of your bedroom, is one of them. [[Stretch my wings.]] [[Go to bed.]]

You spread your sweat-damp feathers, roll the muscles in your aching shoulders, and a tide of relief washes over you. It feels //good//. [[Flap my wings.]] [[Go to bed.]]

Your sleep is restless. [[Time passes.]]

You flap your wings, once, twice. The air is cool between your feathers. [[Fly.]] [[Go to bed.]]

The day of the migration, the burrows are abuzz with activity. There's something you have to see, your neighbors say; it only happens once every few seasons, and you don't want to miss it! Of every entrance to your underground home, only one reaches beyond the shade of the forest, one too far for you to have ever before needed to venture; it's at this far mouth that your neighbors gather, chattering and agape. You push to the front of the crowd, lifting the trim of your cloak to keep it from snagging, and look to the sky. Butterflies. Thousands upon thousands of them, filling the sky, that ocean of blue you've only ever glimpsed through gaps in the forest canopy now ablaze in orange. You've never seen so many wings in one place, such a wide-open space for them to flutter; the butterflies are looping and diving, shimmering in the sunlight, and you’ve never been more aware of the ache beneath your cloak. You watch them, starry-eyed. They’re //beautiful//. [[Sit and watch.]] [[Join them.]]

You're flapping faster, faster, and before you know it, your paws have left the ground. There's not much room here in your little home beneath the forest floor, but you can hardly bring yourself to care as your back bumps the ceiling and your wingtips brush the earthen walls. You remember the first time you leapt, those strong legs of yours doing the thing they were always built for, and a voice in your head says this must be just the same; you flutter down and propel yourself off the bed and hit the ceiling once again, and the briefest image of an open sky where no wall of soil stops your ascent nearly makes you dizzy. You don’t realize what a racket you’ve made until your mother opens the door. “Darling?” You drop to the floor, tuck your wings back up against you as tight as they’ll go. You grab your cloak off the floor and cover yourself. She’s eyeing you, expression unreadable. “What were you doing?” [[Nothing.]] [[Flying.]]

“...I see.” A small smile, furrowed brows you remember well. “Well, don’t stay up too late, alright?” [[Go to bed.]]

“Honey…” A small smile, furrowed brows you remember well. “Rabbits can’t fly.” [[You’re right, I’m sorry.]] [[But I can.]]

“It’s okay,” she says. “I know you’ve been restless. And I know… it’s hard.” A beat of silence. “But you can’t—” A deep breath, finding her words. “You can’t do this kind of thing in front of others, okay? People will talk. I just…” She pulls you into a hug, soft paws crushing your wings against you beneath the fabric of your cloak. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” [[I know.]]

She looks pained. “I know.” A beat of silence. “But you can’t…” A deep breath, finding her words. “You can’t do this kind of thing in front of others, okay? People will talk. I just…” She pulls you into a hug, soft paws crushing your wings against you beneath the fabric of your cloak. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” [[I know.]]

She smiles and ruffles your fur. “Don’t stay up too late, alright?” [[Go to bed.]]

You watch the shimmering cloud for a long while, cloak pulled tight around you to keep your wings from betraying you. When the last glimmer of orange has finally disappeared over the horizon, you find you’re sitting alone. The sun is setting. The evening air is still. [[Return home.]]

You toss away your cloak. How long has it been since your back felt the open air? You stretch your wings wide, wider than you ever could in your cold little bedroom. The breeze ruffles your matted feathers; thrill settles high in your chest. Eyes on the clouds, you’re bounding forward — flapping, feathers and forepaws on cobblestone, and you feel the wind catch in your wings as your powerful hindlegs propel you up and away. The thrill bubbles over, and for once, you do nothing to stop it — your body //must// be meant for this, you think! What are strong legs for if not to send you skyward, soft fur if not to shimmer in the sunlight? You careen straight through the center of the migration, control the last thing on your mind, and butterflies scatter in a flurry of orange. They hover around you, curious, and you spin to greet them. [[I'm not alone.]]

Now, hold on. That can’t be right. Rabbits don’t have wings, do they? [[They don’t.]] [[They can.]]

You never were, were you? The words leave you like a ghost, and you brace yourself for something — exactly what, you don’t know — but nothing comes. Silence, cold and heavy. You look out at the crowd: a sea of shifting eyes and shuffling paws, carefully neutral faces. No one quite meets your gaze. They don't shout or hit you; they murmur to each other, soft and discreet, but no one says a thing to you. Your mother takes your paw. She’s smiling, but it falters at the corners. Her eyes are far away. [[I'm sorry.|not a rabbit 2]] [[Say nothing. |not a rabbit 2]]

That’s right. Rabbits don't have wings, but you certainly do. What are you going to do about that? [[Hide my wings.]] [[Remove my wings.]] [[I am not a rabbit.]]

You don’t really believe that, do you? Ask anyone; rabbits don’t have wings. But you certainly do. What are you going to do about that? [[Hide my wings.]] [[Remove my wings.]] [[I am not a rabbit.]]

Good choice. Flushing red, you tuck your wings back underneath your cloak. You apologize to the crowd; you apologize to your mother; it was a mistake, nothing more, and it won’t happen again. You feel their eyes on your back as you leave. You never stretch your wings again. Your cloak becomes a second skin, and your shame stays tucked beneath it. You learn to keep them still, not daring to even flex the muscles; you wouldn’t want someone to see your back shift in ways it shouldn’t, after all. [[I am a rabbit.|END: hide]]

Good choice. Flushing red, you tuck your wings back underneath your cloak. You apologize to the crowd; you apologize to your mother; it was a mistake, nothing more, and it won’t happen again. You feel their eyes on your back as you leave. When you return to your room, you get to work. The job is sloppy, but it’s enough; you sew up the wounds as best you can, and your cloak easily hides the sutures. You dispose of your wings somewhere no one will ever find them. No one ever does. [[I am a rabbit.|END: remove]]

Your mistake is soon forgotten. The world moves on, and your neighbors are kind to you, and your life is a quiet one. Your wings rot away beneath your cloak, but that’s okay; as the rot spreads over your body, you laugh and say you must be going gray. Nobody looks closer, and you don’t invite them to — you keep your friends at arm’s length, but keep them you do. Your mother is proud of you. When you die, you’re buried in your cloak. Rest well, little one; you were a good rabbit. END

Your mistake is soon forgotten. The world moves on, and your neighbors are kind to you, and your life is a quiet one. Every so often, the wounds re-open, but that’s okay; you wash away the blood so your cloak doesn’t stain and you sew yourself up again. You smile as you do it and learn not to wince. Your mother is proud of you. When you die, you’re buried in your cloak. Rest well, little one; you were a good rabbit. END

You grow, as rabbits do, and so do they; as your legs grow long and your pelt grows thick and your mother marvels at the good young rabbit you've become, you find that wings have sprouted from your back. You know about wings — at least, you think you do. You see them on the jewel-bright beetles that crawl along the ground, though theirs are nothing like yours. Broad and feathered, snow-white as the fur on your back; they barely fit beneath your cloak, but you do your best to fold them flat against you. Your mother notices, but doesn't mention it. Your neighbors know you for the cloak that billows behind you, that charming eccentricity that only gives them more to love. [[Time passes.|your room]]

The seasons pass quietly. Every year, the butterflies return, and every year, you watch them. Your folded wings twitch beneath your cloak, but you keep them safely tucked away; when that familiar ache threatens to rise in your throat, you learn to swallow it, a grounding weight in your stomach. [[It’s better this way.]]

With practice, the swallowing becomes easy. You barely notice the growing weight in your belly. One year, with your eyes on the migration blanketing the sky, you find your thoughts hazy, distant. What was it you felt, sitting in this spot all those years ago? Longing — the thought seems foreign now. Filled to the gullet with something long-forgotten, you can't imagine where you'd find the space for it. You return home that day with the sky still flush with orange. The next time butterflies fill the sky, you stay in your room. [[I am a rabbit.|END: repress]]

Your life passes quietly. You have kind friends and a comfortable home and a happy family, and your mother is proud of you. Your belly drags behind you, but that's okay; you're filled to the skull now, and the numbing press of it against your brain soothes you, familiar as a friend. At night, you dream of butterflies; in the morning, though you can't quite remember why, you feel a little fuller. When you die, you’re buried in your cloak. Rest well, little one; you were a good rabbit. END

Above the roar of the wind and your pulse in your ears, it takes you a moment to notice the quiet. The excited chatter of the crowd has ceased; a low murmuring has replaced it, and as reality returns to you and you still your flight, wings beating to hold you aloft, you see that everyone's eyes are on you. Your mother is among them. You drift to the ground, land in a heavy heap. Cloak discarded on the ground, wings bare for all to see, you've never felt more naked. The crowd is watching. One rabbit asks another, hushed: "What sort of creature is that?" [[I am a rabbit.]] [[I am not a rabbit.]]

Well then, little one. If you're not a rabbit, what is there for a creature like you in a place like this? [[...|END: leave]]

You move swiftly that night: pack your bag, make your bed, say goodnight to your mother and shut her bedroom door behind you. At the mouth of the tunnel, you leave your cloak behind. The night sky is quiet, still, and more vast than you could ever imagine; moonlight casts the world in silver and blue. As you spread your wings and take off into that night, you don't know where you're headed — but you can feel the open air against your feathers, and that's enough. END