The Pink Rabbits

There were two of them. Watching, waiting. They stood, silent sentries against the world around them. A twitch of an ear, a whisper of the grass which surrounded them, and they were off, a gasp of a memory that would mark the day as whole.

I looked at the body on the ground, the now lifeless Brenda Keegan, dead at the moniker giving end of my claw hammer. If I had seen them before, the silent witnesses to my vengeance, would I have felt the urge to complete my revenge? Would the three nights before, where I found out that Brenda was in fact, not the faithful naiveté I had envisioned her, nay, known her to be, have been filled with such rage, such utter disdain for human life that I instantly concocted the plan to dispatch her of the life which coursed through her body, have even transpired? Or, would I have been so moved, so taken aback at the mere presence of such singular perfection in the world, that a single bout of unfaithfulness with the now also deceased Rodney Parrington was no more than a mere moment worthy of discarding from my psyche? Certainly, there were more relevant tasks in the world which were deserving of my attention. I could have easily immersed myself into my work as I had a stack of papers on my desk that went back three weeks, which I could have easily turned my attention to and dismissed further interactions with Brenda with a calm and steady excuse of having to take care of things over which I had been procrastinating. Certainly, that would have been favorable to my employer, Kendra, who had been giving me file folder after file folder filled with various invoices, notes, and memorandums, all of which were meant to prove something greater. I wasn’t even completely certain as to what I was looking for beyond a simple string of numbers. 08–329–23–456–442. Oh how those numbers had haunted me in the beginning. Were they the key to solving an international conspiracy? Would they put Barrister Paul Wellesley behind bars for an extended sentence? Were they a part of something bigger all together? I was uncertain. I knew they appeared in several instances, and in some cases, were representative of various offshore accounts, but what greater purpose they had served, I did not know. They were at the very core of my mind, of my complete consciousness, when I had come home that evening to view, through the side window nearest the garage, Brenda and Rodney in various states of undress, a sex toy I had never before seen in my home, closing the gap between them, a sensual and erotic Bridge On the River Kwai, one I could not destroy with the press of a detonator, while crying over the madness of the senselessness of the devastation. In an instant my mind flew through varying degrees of possible scenarios, from busting in to stop the coitus I was witnessing; to staying at the window, a peeping tom at my own domicile, watching through the window as a sad and cuckolded Kilroy to the secret within; to quietly entering, gathering things to take with me to a hotel while I figured out my next move; to those numbers — those infernal numbers and their hidden inference of meaning. Those thoughts were all capped off nicely, a toothpaste cap belonging to an OCD woman in Poughkeepsie could do no better, with the thought of swift and hurtful vengeance which ultimately led me to digging the hole in my own backyard, where I would lay to rest the unwilling bodies of both Brenda and Rodney, where they together would be forever, albeit in an unmarked grave filled with lye by a man who, undoubtedly would find himself at the swift and heavy sword of justice, sentenced to his own death at the premeditation of his act of passion.

As I picked up Brenda’s leg from where I had dropped it, I turned my direction back to her body. Were the rabbits even there or were they figments of my imagination brought on by an overbearing amount of stress? Numbers, murder, and fear, a conspiracy I could not piece together, it was all getting to me. I dropped to my knees. Oh, the rabbits. The madness. What had I allowed myself to do here?

Sometimes, questions go unanswered, and sometimes the questions are greater than the sum when combined with the final answer. Sometimes, still, the questions are pink rabbits, disappearing with the provocation of a slight breeze.

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