White Rabbits

WHITE RABBITS, abstract fiction, a metaphor for the darker side of the creative process…

          It was small, humble even, with its tall rickety wooden shelves and singular brown, unkempt visage. An obvious aesthetic choice, the sort of deliberate untidiness that transforms the visually unappealing into the universally charming. It seemed to quietly earn its name, The Workshop. A clever name for a tiny pet shop in the middle of the city. The clever simplicity of the name mirrored the charm of the building itself. It was thanks to the shopkeeper, who had acquired it some years back, that the building had maintained such a grounded appeal. Every guest that entered was greeted by the jingle of a bell. By design, it alerted the Shopkeeper to their presence but by powers beyond their understanding it greeted them, welcomed them, transported them to a different time. With the risk of being at the mercy of clichés, many guests and customers felt it belonged to a simpler time. But of course, nostalgia has a way of simplifying the complexity of the past. Regardless, the families came in droves to see the wonders held within.

The Shopkeeper developed a knack at identifying the different species of customers as they entered. He even created names for these separate entities; they may be Buyers, walking in hardly hearing the bell as they passed, money in hand, intent on purchasing one of the many colorful rodents that sat patiently, squeaking proudly upon the shelves. Others were Lookers, no money, no intention. They entered anticipating the sound of the bells, familiar yet no less dumbstruck by the colorful decorated balls of fur that seemed to look back at them with the confidence deserving of such decorated beauties. The Shopkeeper preferred the Lookers for one simple reason, appreciation. While it’s true that the Buyers paid the bills and supplied him with the materials he needed to design his next great work of art, the Lookers gave him what he sought most, validation. They entered once, perhaps twice, a week and behaved as they believed a buyer might. However, like a wolf playing grandmother, there is something unusual about it, obvious. All the while, the Shopkeeper knew they would not buy. They’re attempts to deceive were not unwanted or rude, only unnecessary. He understood that they could not buy any of his works, lest they lose their privilege to walk through the chiming door every week. For them, if they were to buy, they would never be able to return, at least not with the same frequency. How could they justify it? Purchasing a living breathing thing and then returning as if to buy another. No. They knew, as he did, they would not buy, only look.

            So, the Shopkeeper sat and waited at his desk. His eyes were fixed on the door. What sort of customer would greet him today? He imagined doing his usual tour of the store, a gleeful trot through the many isles, admiring the looks on their faces as they passed any of the treasures tucked away in the many shelves. He would watch as the glimmer of his creations sparkled off the surface of their bright eyes. He would entertain their practiced questions on feeding and bedding, play their little game until they left empty handed with promises to return. Promises he knew they’d keep. He would hum quietly to himself from the moment the bells sang as they entered to the moment they sang once more as they left. Being a creature of habit, he did as he always did, he walked tiredly from the back room of the Workshop and into the dimly lit display room, only supplied with pale light from the outside until the Shopkeeper himself flipped the light switch.

No fluttering or blinking, the lights turned straight on.

What was once in shadow was now illuminated and met with the rowdy applause of the many decorated white rabbits that sat carefully upon the shelves. This was the aspect of The Workshop that most hypnotized its frequent guests; the shop specialized in one specific type of animal, white rabbits. The Shopkeeper greeted them with a ‘good morning’ as he carefully presented each of the many rabbits with a handful of food that he personally delivered. Each handful was accompanied with a genuine smile and delivered by ageing trembling hands. The crow’s feet at the edges of his eyes spoke to the warmth of his affection for the small animals. Each returned the enthusiasm with squeaks and thumps of their own. They had no cages, no barriers, yet they made no attempt to escape. Why would they? Where else could they receive such praise, such admiration? The aisles were long rows of shelves, five levels high. Each with exactly six inches between the next prized rabbit. It was a time-consuming process to walk and feed each rodent individually, placing the food at their feet as though presenting gifts to a holy man or the granite figure of a saint. They accepted the Shopkeeper’s offering with silent reverence.

            After several minutes the rabbits all sat quietly eating. The Shopkeeper admired his past works, his successes displayed before him. His tired eyes looked upon the gold sheets and crowns they bore. That was the trick to owning a shop of only white rabbits; he decorated them, painted them in their youth, painting them to match the vision in his head and then displaying them for the public to adore. Through his mind’s eye and his once steady hands, the white rabbits became golden, silver, royal blues and purples. They were decorated with an assortment of ornaments and embellishments. They sparkled in the creeping rays of the sun. They now sat fixed, content. Rabbits that would have, on their own, fled from the sight of men and women now basked in their gaze. A gaze that once inspired horror, fears of being snatched, snuffed and snacked upon, now held in their multi-color stare, glory. For this they had the Shopkeeper to thank and, while small and simple creatures, they knew that. Through him they had been given beauty and through beauty they were given purpose, the sort of weighty significance that shatters even the deepest of perceptual barriers. Thus, in return for his constant fidelity and for his creative mind they repaid him daily by sitting proudly, allowing the Shopkeeper himself, as much as any customer, to admire them uninterrupted.

 This may seem a meager means of payment to the man who granted them reason in the world, but in truth it was the finest most serene moment of the Shopkeeper’s day. Allowing his heavy eyes to take in the visage of his own modest success. He looked on them as a father does his children. He looked on them with the pride and security of a life well spent, days not wasted. These moments before the first customer, before he knew whether the day was a success or a failure, these were his most cherished moments of the day. Only seeing the small rabbits as they sat eating, fluffing their fur and thumping their hindlegs as his eyes panned through them, as if responding to his wandering gaze. As he looked at each he tried, often without success, to remember the inspiration behind each. Why did he choose the colors he chose? Why a crown? Why a mask? What had he been thinking? Each rabbit seemed to represent a part of himself that had long ago faded, drifted into a previous outdated consciousness. As his eyes panned across each shelf, he would occasionally see an empty spot where there had once sat one of his prize rabbits and he would try, again with infrequent success, to remember which rabbit had been sold that had once occupied that specific spot. He would sit and hope, with no particular rabbit in mind, that those that he had sold were still living comfortably with their new owners away from his watchful, if not ageing, eyes.

            After only a few more moments of quiet appreciation and vague recognition of his own mortality, his eyes would habitually, even ritually, find the ticking clock upon the wall adjacent to the cashier desk. It sat there, atop the wall, a tyrant. It ticked and tocked like the laughter of a demon, a red king sitting, watching with glee. Glee born from the certainty of its inevitable victory. A victory that the Shopkeeper knew was creeping ever closer with each tick. However, the world is a funny place, the sort of humor that only gods and those beyond mortal toil could find the levity or apathy to laugh at.

The bell rang out cheerfully at the door, the first customers of the day entered, and the door shut loudly behind them, masking the snickers of the dead as the two creatures entered. A tall, slender woman accompanied by a short young girl. The woman looked middle aged, or nearly middle aged. She was not ageing well, and her tightly pulled hair and black pantsuit did nothing to help that. Her eyes were dark and stern, she stood upright with business heels adding a couple inches to her slender, petite frame. Her shoulders were narrow, as narrow as her jawline. Her eyes had bags, but not the bags of age or existential wear that hung upon the Shopkeeper’s, these were the eyes of sleepless nights and jetlag. Ferocious business meetings and at least one divorce. The eyes of an individual who had forgotten beauty, forgotten to smile.

Standing beside her, her opposite in every regard, a young girl with curly blond hair. She was short, even for her age, which the Shopkeeper guessed was nine or ten. Her eyes were a wide and dreamy crystalline blue. She had the eyes of a young girl who still believed in prince charming, believed that all she wanted was a home and a heart to share. Her eyes shone with the beautiful ignorance of youth. Ignorance that still believed in magic, in heaven and hell, that knew nothing of her father’s infidelity or her mother’s broken spirit. To her the bell sounded as it once did for the Shopkeeper, it chimed with the soft, subtle beauty of a promise. The clock on the wall did not call to her yet; she had no need of it, no fear of it. Her mother held her hand tightly as they made their first step across the threshold. The controlling hand of a mother, a mother that held in her talon’s her last chance for happiness; the only promise she had left unbroken.

A world of disappointment clinging to a world of promise.

            “Good morning ladies, my apologies about the door. Still meaning to get that fixed I’m afraid.” The mother glanced at her watch, visibly in a rush. She did not notice the creaking door as it cried out in pain.

            “Good morning. Nice to meet you.” She extended her hand to the Shopkeeper, but her eyes remained on the shelves. Her eyes were searching, not appreciating. No doubt they would pan until they found a color that she was confident her daughter would like out-right. Hopefully then she could be on her way.

            “Hi there!” a small voice squeaked from below the desk. Only the blue eyes and the small, still underdeveloped nose of the young girl protruded above the plain of the wooden desk. The Shopkeeper stepped out from behind it and knelt in front of the young girl, who regarded him in a moment as a tall tired looking man, but with the warmest of smiles. She did not take a step back as he approached. She was still unafraid of strangers, that would of course change in time.

            “Hello young lady. Welcome to the Workshop.” He extended a hand; the girl smiled and shook it. Her two front teeth were larger than the rest, no doubt adult teeth filling the gaps where younger teeth once hung. The two more pronounced teeth stole the stage that was her youthful smile. Only then did her mother notice the man shaking her daughter’s hand. She extended her own hand again.

            “Where are my manners, I’m Clara, Clara May.”

 She had a disapproving look on her face. The Shopkeeper often forgot, having locked himself away so frequently to tend to the shop and his prized rabbits that he had long ago reached an age that made responsible parents skeptical of his intentions. What once made him a caring charming, bright eyed young man now made him a potentially nefarious presence in the eyes of others.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, the clock on the wall mocked.

            “Yes of course, where are mine. I’m the owner of this rickety old dump. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope I can be of help today.” He spoke with meek defensiveness. It seemed to work, as Clara observed the Shopkeeper with a skeptical look, but without the venomous glare of her previous statement.

            “Well then, if you’re offering to help, I was wondering if…”

            “Did you make all these rabbits?!”

The girl blurted out and was immediately met with a tug of the arm and a stern look of disapproval by her mother. However, the look was not as firm as it had once been. This was no doubt habitual, and like any habit it dulled over time. The fear she used to desperately preserve her daughter’s servitude and subsequent dependence was already fleeting at a young age. Before Clara could finish her initial question, the Shopkeeper had already knelt before the young girl again.

            “No, I’m afraid not, another artist made these beautiful creatures, I merely decorated them. Would you like to see?”

The girl’s eyes beamed with delight and soon each set of eyes looked up to the slender woman in the pants suit, each seeking permission to continue. The stern woman checked her watch again and then looked back down at the man

“Could you? We are in a hurry and would appreciate the help.”

“Well, as you can see, the shop itself is not much to look at.” Clara’s eyes seemed to say No kidding, though the Shopkeeper ignored it. “But we have a fine selection of animals. Regardless of taste, there is something on these shelves for everyone.”

            “I only see rabbits.” Clara spoke with palpable cynicism.

            “Quite, but each rabbit has its own personality a personality captured by its physical appearance. An appearance I did my best to construct.”

            “They’re beautiful.” The girl said with lingering wonder.

            “Why thank you, ma’am. They do appreciate the praise I assure you.”

            The rabbits thumped and squeaked on cue, only to affirm his point. The young girl laughed. Clara had been looking down at her watch and shaking her head as she texted a coworker on her phone. She did not notice the harmonious display of the small creatures.

            “I’m afraid we really are on a tight schedule; would you mind bringing us around the shop?”

            The Shopkeeper smiled, “Of course.” Almost mechanical in nature, his legs brought him through aisle after aisle, gesturing to each rabbit individually and summing up the elusive meaning of each decorated piece in as few words as possible. The girl walked in stride and admired each rabbit, her bright eyes almost blinding with enthusiasm. Clara walked stiffly behind them, still texting harsh words to her recipient until, finally, she stopped.

“Forgive me, I need to make a quick call.”

Ally just ignored her and kept walking as the Shopkeeper politely came to a halt and nodded. As he turned away from Clara, he smirked to himself. Need to make a call, how boring a life of absolutes must be. People like Clara always reassured the Shopkeeper of his financially precarious vocation, surely his work was more rewarding, at least emotionally. Still, it was a nice watch. Clara pulled the phone and spat hissing words through it. With Clara distracted, the Shopkeeper continued to speak with the girl one on one; each feeding off the other’s enthusiasm. As they rounded one aisle into the next, the Shopkeeper was pleased how challenging he found it to keep up with the girl who was galloping along. Her eyes lingered on each rabbit for only a second. This was not an insult to the rabbits; it was simply a symptom of her youth. A symptom the Shopkeeper longed for as he walked briskly behind her. Ally’s young mind took in every sight and sent, and then demanded more. So, as children do, she obliged.

Soon they approached a small white rabbit with a blue sparkling top hat and turquois sequin suit. It spoke with all the excess of a forgone age, all the embellishment of a world desperate to mask its pain with material things, and the little girl was suddenly frozen staring at it.

            “He’s beautiful. What’s his name?”

            “Ah yes, he certainly is an eye catcher. A fan favorite, Gatsby.”

            “Why has no one bought him yet then?” She stuck out her fingers and Gatsby sniffed them with the tip of his pink nose. Surprisingly there was no objection from Clara May who remained two busy to notice.

            “Well, Ally, some people see no beauty in excess, can’t think past the glittering lights and hear what its really saying. However, it’s also partially my fault. I’m not too keen on parting with him.”

            “Why’s that?”

            “He’s one of my favorites, a personal favorite.”

            “But aren’t they all yours? Don’t you love all of them?”

            “I do. But many of them don’t shine for me anymore. They don’t speak to me, not like they used to. Gatsby, he still means to me what he always did.” The lack of clarity in his words, combined with the young ignorant mind of his audience soon dawned on him “I’m afraid that might be difficult for you to understand. You’re still young.”

            “No, I get it.” She spoke while still gazing at the rabbit in the glittering blue blazer. “There’s lots I still don’t understand, but one day I’ll be older and then I will.”

            “Yes, and maybe this will be one of the many things you come to understand.” He masked his disappointment with another warm smile. Just another child he thought another admirer, a Looker. He did not want to tell her that clarity and age do not go hand in hand, and if they have any relationship at all it is the inverse of what her young mind had been misled to believe. A broken promise. The blue-eyed girl continued after an exaggerated sigh.

            “I hope so, but then there will be lots that I forget, like you. I’ll know stuff like mommy, but I’ll be sad like her too.” Her large blue, miraculously comprehending eyes never left the rabbit. The Shopkeeper examined her with caution, marveled at her with sudden, creeping hope.

            “What’s your name, young lady?”

            “Ally.” She did not hesitate

            Almost. he thought “Well Ally, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

            She finally turned and looked at him, visibly excited to have the genuine undivided attention of an adult “I want to have a garden. I want to have every beautiful flower you can imagine, but lots of roses, mostly roses. I’d water it every day and trim it every day. I’d have a big glass ceiling so the sun could shine through and every day I’d come in to see them. Then I’d let people come see it so they could look at the flowers too. Just like your rabbits.”

            “That would be nice. How much would you charge?”

            “Charge? Oh! It would be free so everyone could see, but mommy says that’s not how it works. She says I need to make money.”

            The Shopkeeper smiled approvingly down at Ally, hearing a distant version of himself in the young girl. Tick-tock, mocked the clock, but the rabbits thumped with praise to drown its laughter. Clara May covered her other ear as she continued to argue over the phone.

            “Well, Ally, that is a beautiful idea. If you ever need help you feel free to ask me.”

            “Do you know a lot about gardens?”

            “I suppose I do.” The Shopkeeper gestured to the shelves around them. “Taking care of these rabbits, it’s a lot like caring for a garden. Instead of pruning and weeding it, I feed it and water it. I’m sure I could help.” He smiled even warmer than before “Any other questions, you should ask your mom, she seems like a smart lady.”

            “Thanks mister, but my mom doesn’t know anything about gardens. She says gardening is just a hobby.” The Shopkeeper’s eyes glanced at the mother.

She was standing still as steel. Her free hand waving about and the veins on her neck pulsing, she wasn’t shouting but in other settings she would be. Her voice was cutting, the consonants seemed to drive through the listeners ear with a pointed precision. Neither Ally nor the Shopkeeper could know for certain if it was her ex-husband on the other end of the phone, but it may as well have been. Yes, and careers are only for the rest of your life.

The Shopkeeper reassured himself once again

            “Even so, Ally, if you have any other questions you should ask your mom. She may not have the answers, but she’ll appreciate the questions.” Ally’s head turned on its side and her blue eyes studied the man’s wrinkled face and hollow cheek bones, the way his skin hung in places and cracked in others.

            “Okay, I understand.”

            “I think you do.” 

Pulling away from the greyish blue of the young girls comprehending gaze, his eyes fluttered back to the prideful little rabbit with the sequin blue smoking jacket and top hat. Noticing his creator’s eyes upon him, Gatsby puffed his chest and raised his chin, Go on, old sport. He looked back at the small, angelic creature that stood barely four feet off the ground in front of him. Her eyes were now on the rabbit.

“Would you like to hold him, Ally?”

“Can I?!”

He clasped his ageing, trembling hands around Gatsby. He raised him from the shelf, carefully. The trembling in his hands did not cease until he had delivered the rabbit into Ally’s. She had her hands outstretched and waiting, even held them just beneath the old man’s in case those once sturdy hands chose today to finally give.

Despite the turbulence of his creator’s hands, Gatsby showed no sign of discomfort; he had trusted those hands before and would trust them until his legs stopped thumping and his heart stopped beating. Now, in the embrace of the young girl, Gatsby poked his pink nose curiously into her face. She giggled and replied with an Eskimo kiss of her own, moving her head back and forth gently; Gatsby continued undeterred, nuzzling her face and breathing in her scent. The other rabbits gave their blessing through a series of applause, loud thumps and joyous squeaks. Ally looked around the shelves, still amazed by the small white marvels as they sang. Wonderland. She thought This is Wonderland. Half expecting to see the mischievous Cheshire Cat sitting atop one of the shelves, though of course he wasn’t. After all, a cat in a store full of rabbits would be bad for business. Once, the other rabbits settled and Gatsby made himself comfortable in her small but firm arms, the Shopkeeper looked at her with restored candor, but the same warm smile. The rabbits all sat silent, somehow anticipating his words.

“Now, Ally, as much as I want you to take Gatsby home with you, I need to ask you one last question. If you get it right, he’s yours. Otherwise, I’m just not sure I can let him go.”

“Okay Mister, I promise I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will. Are you ready?”

She nodded firmly, visibly concentrating on listening in order to give her best answer.

“Alright here it is: What does Gatsby want?”

At first Ally looked up and then to the side, thinking hard, as hard as her young but impressive mind could. She was biting down, grinding her teeth as her eyes wandered across the ceiling. In these moments of silence, the Shopkeeper grimly imagined all the likely, but unsatisfactory answers she might give. Love, a home, a family. All things that certainly everyone, at least almost everyone, wanted, but not Gatsby. What did he want? The Shopkeeper waited patiently, but as was often the case, silence was not his friend.

His mind wandered from Ally’s possible failure to his own many failures, his eyes glanced shamefully about the room, about the many shelves, about the many proud and brilliant rabbits. He tried, again without success, to recall the last time he had seen his family, the last time he stepped outside the walls of the shop, the last time he successfully decorated a new rabbit. Tick Tock mocked the clock, and he replied with a glare. Suddenly the girls wonderous blue eyes left the ceiling, a look of revelation upon them. She stared intently, with a demeanor well beyond her years, into the eyes of the small rabbit whose rapid breaths seemed to build with excitement.

“Oh, I get it!” She beamed a brilliant smile; her cry finally caught the attention of her mother who gave another skeptical glance at the old man and the young girl. However, without much hesitation she returned to the hostile conversation. The Shopkeeper waited, stunned by the girl’s confidence. “He doesn’t know what he wants!”

Now the Shopkeeper’s head turned on its side “How’s that?”

“Well, he wants something that doesn’t exist, something that he made up in his head. That’s sad. But maybe I can give him something that makes him happy, at least until he figures that out for himself.”

The Shopkeeper was almost at a loss for words, at least he would’ve been if he hadn’t imagined this conversation in his head a thousand times over.

 “That’s a very good answer Ally, but what if he never realizes it, what if the warmth of your home and the warmth of your affection aren’t enough to thaw his heart. What if you can’t give him what he wants and what you can give isn’t enough.” He was being too poetic now, too high-minded and he knew it, she was an impressive young girl, but he was grasping at something that was beyond her, beyond him. He could make a shop full of beautiful rabbits, he could make them sit, stay, sing, but he couldn’t answer this question, not alone, and by the time this blue eyed emissary of hope could adequately answer the smaller details of this tragedy he would be long dead. He was no longer smiling.

Tick Tock

Ally pondered, looking for the answer that might solve the problem posited by the Shopkeeper but that would also allow her to leave the store with the rabbit in her hands. “If he’s unhappy with me, even for a second, I’ll bring him back here.” She looked up at the Shopkeeper with a gravely serious look, he rubbed his tired eyes and smiled again.

“He’s yours Ally. I know you’ll give him what he wants.”

“Really?! Thanks mister I won’t let you down, I promise!”

It felt right to end on a promise. As if on cue, Clara May ended her one-sided conversation with an “I have to go. Goodbye.” She turned back with a forced smile. She was met by the sight of her daughter holding a small white rabbit with eccentric blue clothing. The Shopkeeper gestured to them.

“I think she found her favorite. Two peas in a pod.”

“Yes, well blue is her favorite color.” Clara spoke matter-of-factly. To her there was no choice, no connection beyond the color blue.

“Look mommy! Isn’t he beautiful?” She did her best to press the rabbit into her mother’s face, Gatsby sat calmly in her hands.

“He certainly is. What are you going to name him?”

“His name is Gatsby!”

“That’s a great name, sweetheart.” The name could have been any and the response would have been the same. “How much do we owe you?” Clara began sifting through her large designer bag in search of her more petite wallet.

“No need.” The Shopkeeper waved off her pursuit. “He’s free. Your daughter is quite a bright little one, I’m sure he will be happier with her than a tired old man like me.”

“Very well, thank you.” Clara recognized no cry for help beyond his warm smile nor did she want to, her capacity for kindness toward others outside of her daughter had long ago diminished. She instead acted as though there was nothing strange about the gesture and put her purse back while being quietly grateful that the old man was beyond any ambition for wealth. Something she already deduced from the look of the store itself.  

“Thanks, so much mister!” Ally held the rabbit out to him; the Shopkeeper gave Gatsby one final pat on the head.

“No, thank you. You take good care of him now, Ally. I’m counting on you.”

“You can visit him any time you want! I’m sure he’d like that.”

Clara stirred uncomfortably and forced a miserable attempt at a polite smile, the Shopkeeper returned his own more pleasant attempt

“That is awfully sweet of you Ally, but it’s best for all of us, especially Gatsby, if he learns to live without me.” He hesitated before a look of vague realization flashed across his face “In fact, if he ever seems unhappy, for any reason, don’t bring him back here. Let him go.”

“Okay mister.” She did not ask another question, she only nodded. Somehow, the Shopkeeper believed some part of her, perhaps a part that would develop over the coming years, understood what he meant. Clara now looked visibly uncomfortable, she checked her silver watch again, despite the smart phone she clutched in her hand.

“Thanks again.” Clara vomited the words with a stiff, practiced smile “Come along Ally, mommies going to be late.”

“Okay.” The words were compliant in meaning only, in years to come they would grow less compliant and then, soon after, distant. Clara May reached with her free hand for her daughter’s own hand, but her small frame required both hands to carry the delicate body of Gatsby. With no hand to clutch, squeeze, clasp, snare she simply ushered Ally through the door with a hand on her back. Ally walked briskly out before it touched her. Clara turned as they exited.

“Have a wonderful day, sir.”

“You as well, ma’am.”

The bell chimed, it sang with the perpetual gentleness of falling rain as the small girl, the woman and Gatsby all exited the store. The light melody lingered in the air until, just as suddenly, it was gone.

The Shopkeeper looked up at the clock. Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock. The rabbits all seemed to be staring at him, waiting to see what their devoted creator would decide to do next. As if the decision was not his own, the Shopkeeper walked over to the door and flipped the open sign to closed. As he did so, he could feel the air around him begin to turn. The rabbits, which were once quiet, now began to squeak and fidget, speaking their inaudible language quietly amongst each other. He did not hear them, did not notice them as his mind began to race. There was a burning in his chest, an alertness to his eyes that had previously been lacking, as though an ancient fire had been awakened inside of him. He walked, briskly, with giddy excitement toward his work-desk in the center of the room.

He began with a large piece of thin paper; he took a pencil from a porcelain mug in front of him. He delicately attempted to trace a thin line, his hand shook. He made a second attempt only for his hand to shake as he drew the line fainter this time. He erased each line and took in a deep breath. He closed his eyes and their it was. A small white rabbit with angel wings and a gold fleece. The wings clipped at the very top, the fleece ill-fitting but symmetrical, a fleece that the rabbit could one day, in another world, grow into. His hand moved, this time gliding lightly on the paper, it held steady and true. The rabbits seemed to roar with triumph, they thumped and squeaked their tunes of motivation as though their creator’s inspiration had manifested itself before them and won their approval. In moments, he looked down at the completed drawing. It was only a draft, but it was beautiful. Now, he needed a rabbit. He trotted, almost skipped, to a door just behind the cashier’s desk. He opened it and revealed to the light, a group of unaltered white rabbits. Each looked at him as they ran freely around the small cramped room. They competed for attention with tricks and songs. Some ran in circles to show their vitality, others posed to show their beauty. Some thumped and others cleaned themselves. However, one caught his eye almost instantly. It stood up on its hind legs and without a single sound or further gesture, beseeched him to come closer. He lifted this rabbit up, his hands trembling precariously under its meager weight.  

“Hello there, friend.”

The other rabbits thumped, both the untouched and the shelved beauties alike. He closed the door and the rabbits looked out dreamily at the glorious wooden shelves and the beautiful rabbits that looked back at them from on high, appearing as the promise of what was to come. With the door shut he held the rabbit close to his face, his eyes squinted as if looking directly into the sun. He pressed the rabbit to his cheek, felt its warmth and its small heart working feverishly to pump vitality through its fragile figure. He rushed over to the desk and gently, though still trembling, placed the rabbit on the work-desk. It sat on the oak wood, as still as it had been when he first saw it. He stroked it from ear to tail, pressing its long ears down and scratching under its chin with the other hand. It thumped its right leg with gratitude as he found a spot which its legs could not reach. He smiled, baring his teeth with the type of joy only his work could grant him. The clock was silent, passionless yet defeated, if only for a moment.

He sifted through a myriad of drawers, at times finding what he expected, other times finding further inspiration in the unexpected. Drawing string, thin golden chain links, scarlet cloth, and diamonds which no doubt were worth more than the shop itself. His hands worked to put the pieces together, each time presenting the combination of crafts to the naked white rabbit who thumped with satisfaction. He was slower than he used to be, sloppier, but this time he would recapture it. The inspiration he had felt so frequently in his youth, his old hands would seize it, tame it. The pieces now assembled, the patient prepped and the vision in his mind maintained, it was time for the artist to play architect. He held the rabbit tenderly, took the fleece in his hands and began fitting it to the rabbit’s frame.

It was meant not to fit, but while not yet fitting must look as though one day it might. He wrapped the fleece around it and gave the rabbit a reassuring pat on the head, he pressed its lower back down to stop its legs from thumping with excitement. He drew out the scissors and looked in what places the fleece would need to be trimmed. Just below the rabbit’s stomach would be a good start. He cut slowly, carefully. He recalled how his hands had once been more fitting of a surgeon than an artist, but he was young then. He creeped closer to the white fur of the rabbit, with each successful cut and tuck, the rabbit’s heart raced, and ears twitched. It could see itself wrapped in gold, high on the shelves, beautiful. The first step was within grasp now, the fleece was near perfect, but there was no sense in stopping until it was perfect; the white rabbit surely agreed. One final cut, then the wings. He began delicate, his spectacles sinking to the tip of his nose, sliding freely on his clammy moist flesh, he was not aware until that moment that he had been sweating. He rubbed his brow and pushed the glasses tight against the bridge of his nose. His fingers pressed together, tightening the scissors against the final strip of cloth that was to be removed. A mild, and involuntary twitch of his thin, vascular hand pinched against the small rabbit’s side. It yipped and twitched with painful surprise. He patted the rabbit with his free hand and settled him.

“Forgive me little one. No need to worry. No need to worry.” He repeated

He recomposed himself and continued along the seam he had already began to cut. He had to cut a bit higher to erase any evidence of the mis cut, this meant he was closer against the rabbit’s body. His hand shook, but he saw the look of trust in the little rodent’s eyes. He knew it believed, knew it believed from birth like all the others in the storage room. He saw its desire, its desire to sit among the others. He tried, with every fiber, he tried to steady his hand. He cut slowly, as his fingers pinched together and the cloth fell away the rabbit yipped, this time in pain. A drop of blood made crimson the once ivory fur of its belly. He dropped the scissors and cupped the rabbit in his hands.

“Sssshhh. Ssshhh. It’s okay little one. We can do this. I can do this. I promise.”

The rabbit sat still, but it’s heart no longer raced with excitement, it raced with fear. Its breaths were quick, like a child stifling their tears. He petted and patted but the rabbit only looked at him from the corner of its eye, the trust fading. The shelved rabbits were growing evermore quiet. Where there was once loud applause and triumphant encouragement there was now silent pity. They sat watching on high, content in their shelves. They felt only a distant pain, a distant feeling of empathy for the doomed. The naked, bleeding rabbit didn’t dare look at them, either out of shame or fear.

The Shopkeeper used a cloth to wipe at the fresh wound, but it only smeared into the fur. The rabbit jolted and squirmed with every press against the cut. There could be no perfection now, but that was okay. The Shopkeeper assured himself of how many other’s had scars hidden beneath their bright shining clothes. It would no longer be perfect, but it was salvageable. The wings, he though, the wings will be perfect, and the fleece will cover the blood. You’ll still fly, I promise. He picked up the wings and brought his trembling hands closer to the upper back of the now trembling white rabbit. “Shhhh. Shhh.” He whispered assuredly. The rabbit sat still. He took the wings and grabbed a needle. Painless, a technique he mastered years ago, a technique he could do with his tired eyes sewn shut. He pressed the first wing down, the rabbit stirred but there was no pain. The wing shinned upon the rabbit’s back, it glowed with the promise of success. One more. He picked up the second wing, surer of himself this time. The rabbit looked at him, its breath slowing with renewed trust. He wiped the sweat from his brow and inhaled through his nose. He spread the fur on the right side of the rabbit’s back and pressed the needled down into the hidden pink flesh of the rodent. His hand slipped and the rabbit jumped, the wing fell back down upon the desk as more blood began to flow.

“No, no, no, little one it’s okay, I’m sorry.”

He adjusted his spectacles and held the rabbit in place, which was now actively trying to move away from him. It squeaked, light pleading squeaks. He dabbed at the wound with his already bloodied cloth, the entire back of the rabbit was covered in a pinkish hew.

“Shhh. Shhh.”

The rabbit did not relax this time, he pushed down on its hind legs to prevent it from jumping away in pain. He used his free, equally unreliable, hand to press the needle. He moved as carefully as he was capable, the vision in his head warping and distorting to account for his prior failures.

 “Shhhh. Shhhh.”

He placed the needle just beside the open wound and pressed, his hand trembled the whole way. The rabbit squeaked and yipped in pain; its legs attempted to jump away but his hand forced them down. It would be painful, but it would be a success, he had promised. But this was not to be, again he had pressed unevenly. The blood flowed and he was forced to remove the wing himself. Removing the wing as the rabbit squirmed to be free from the torment. More blood. The rabbit immediately jumped away from him to the edge of the desk. The pink fur now a grotesque mixture of rusty brown, crimson and pink. He held back tears and cursed himself as he adjusted his spectacles with a frantic and agitated wiping of his brow. His hands were red as the blood ran between his fingers. He found a bandage and another clean cloth. He reached out to the rabbit with the bandage and cloth in hand, as his fingers reached it, it bared its teeth and nipped at him.

“Please no. Please, little one, I can do this for you, for both of us, I promise. Please don’t.” He reached out again.

This time it was not a warning, its teeth dug into his index finger, drawing blood of its own. The blood ran from his finger and mixed with the betrayed rabbit’s which remained in a sticky and raw film on his palm. He did not curse, did not lash out, did not say a word. The other rabbits watched silently. He sat back; an expression of guilt wore him like a wrinkled, worn suit. His eye’s heavy, his mouth thin and straight. His bloody palms facing the ceiling as he locked eyes with the bloodied rabbit. They looked at each other. Each ashamed, each unmoving, unspeaking. There was no longer a vision in his head, just a bloody rabbit. Raising his palms into view he examined them. Each covered in rabbit blood or his own. No longer the hands of an artist or a surgeon, the hands of a butcher.

“I’m sorry little one. No more, I promise no more.”

His eyes examined the tall wooden shelves. He saw the eyes of his many successes looking back at him. They did not utter a sound, did not speak quietly among one another; they sat in somber mourning, reflecting on the death of a promise.

The Shopkeeper’s eyes found the empty spots upon the shelves, all the places he meant to replace, meant to fill with new vibrant ideas, spots that had been empty for years. Now, a freshly empty spot where a beautiful rabbit in blue once sat, while only a butchered promise sat before him. He extended his arms to the rabbit who, satisfied with its revenge, allowed him to hold it. He clasped it in both of his bloodied trembling hands and covered it, cradled it. He kept it from the sight of the other rabbits and carried it to the back of the store. He walked toward the door he had exited at the start of the day and turned his back on the shelves of beautiful rabbits, each looking on with morbid curiosity.

He opened the door and flipped a switch.

The light fluttered and flickered into life, beneath the glaring light was a larger room. It resembled a warehouse, blue steel walls and faint aching light. The room itself was empty of any apparatus, its only contents skulked, scurried, or sulked about the cold sterile floors. Bloodied, deformed, broken rabbits moved silently about the room. Missing ears, freshly red or dried brown fur. Each looked at him with disappointment and faint hope, hope that today he would pick them up and carry them to the shelves; none of them were capable of fully comprehending his failure. He could not deliver on his promise; not now, not ever. He looked on them with dull pain, pain he had carried for years. The rabbits looked on him, hundreds of them, with nearly twice as many eyes. They waited for an apology, for love, for salvation. Instead, he gave them one more failure.

He placed the bloodied rabbit gently down at the edge of the room. It did not look back at him as it limped slowly into the room to live among the others. Hell. He thought This is hell. He walked out and shut the door. The watchful eyes of the rabbits were upon him as they sat silent, but his eyes were fixed on the clock.

Tick-Tock.