Killed
by Ethel Rohan

Our dogs did not fare well with us. Of the string of puppies we’d taken in over the years, three were run-over, two more ran off, and the last, Prince, a Collie mongrel, died mysteriously of strychnine poisoning.

Mother suspected a neighbor, the elderly woman as frail as onion skin, and no one could convince her otherwise. “She was always on about his barking.”

We went two years without another pet, until my younger sister announced that a friend’s rabbit had had an army of babies. She wanted to take two. Mother somehow agreed.

I protested. “They’re dirty, and too much trouble.”

Mother ran at me. “What do you know?”

“Why two?” I pressed.

“They get lonely,” my sister said.

She was eight, I eleven.

Dad wasn’t sold either. “We don’t do well with pets.”

“They’re rabbits,” Mother said. “We can do rabbits.”

They arrived the following day, one a mix of white and tobacco, and the other tan and black. As hard as I tried to ignore the duo, I couldn’t resist. Smitten, I held their soft bodies, stroked their silky heads, and searched their bottomless eyes. 

Within days, my family’s interest in the bunnies began to wane; I the one left to feed and water them, clean out their cage.

I dragged my sister out to the back shed, insisting that while I bathed the bunnies, she emptied their shit-littered cage. She refused.

I smacked her head. “You’ve got to treat things right.”

She wailed, running for Mother.

Mother pushed me against the shed wall. “You don’t hit your sister, you hear?”

 

 

I washed the bunnies in the bathroom sink, testing the water temperature with my elbow just like I’d seen mothers do for their babies. The bunnies struggled between my soapy hands. I murmured reassurances. After, they hopped about the bathroom floor, escaping my towel.

Mother banged on the door. “What are you doing in there?”

“Coming.”

She moved off. My heart slowed. Sure she’d returned downstairs and wasn’t lurking outside waiting to pounce, I exited, the bunnies hidden in the towel.

I returned the damp, lilac-scented animals to their cleaned cage, smiling to myself.

Later, when I braved the cold evening to go feed the bunnies, I found them lying on their sides, frozen. I rushed inside the house, shouting.

Mother and my sister each pulled a stiffened rabbit from the cage, and carried them to the living room, placing them on the hearth close to the fire. I remained in the far corner, shaking.

Mother massaged the bunnies inside the blankets, but it was useless.

My sister cried harder. “She killed them.”

Mother crossed the room in two strides, and walloped me across the face. The sound of skin smacking skin rang in my ears, and my cheek stung, instantly swollen. I moved my head, and offered her my other cheek. She hit me again, driving home that I was bad.

 

ETHEL ROHAN was raised in Ireland, but now lives in San Francisco. She has a will of Celtic steel that chains her to her writing desk. Whenever she does break away the sun hurts her eyes. She’s grateful to have published widely, in elimae, Wigleaf, >kill author, Monkeybicycle, (So New) Necessary Fiction, and many others. Her blog is straightfromtheheartinmyhip.blogspot.com.

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