Jordan Colledge's "Rabbits in Cages"

Nothing has changed by the time you wake up; the popcorn ceiling is the same as your bleary eyes left it the night before. The off-blue wallpaper still peels away from the wall in a half-spiral. You look down at your feet, poking out from under the too-short, toodark-for-colour blanket, only to be blinded by the light streaming through the useless curtain. Blinded enough that the scraping, for a moment at least, escapes you.

Blinking dumbly for several minutes, you take a while to process the world. You’d tell anyone who cared to listen any more that your brain needs time to kick itself into gear. They tell you to drink coffee; you tell them piss tastes better.

You roll over, check your phone; it reads a blurry 9:32. You blink hard, try to rub the sleep away. You’re tired, you’ve been tired for so long that it’s starting to prey on your senses.

Finally, that noise manages to break through the haze. The scraping has already stopped before it breaks through the gauzy feeling of exhaustion, now replaced with heavy thumps coming at intervals.

No matter. Dad has been working outside the house recently, machining wood into things that would be called slapdash at first, engineered at second glance. This repetitive thudding is normal, even though it resonates in the floor. Even though it sounds like it comes from the kitchen. Maybe this incongruity is what leaves you sitting on the edge of your bed, staring at the wire coat hangers hung empty in the closet. You shut your eyes, wanting to seal out the dazzling light for just a moment longer.

Just then, Anne, you recognize the cadence of her footsteps, walks past the door. She stops, pokes her head into the room. Her expression confuses you at first—it’s terse, businesslike, but there’s a twinge of sadness somewhere inside it.

A fraction of a second ahead of her voice, you know.

This doesn’t mean that it stops the ringing in your ears as she tells you she’s leaving. The flinch of your gaze when you hear that your dad threatened her, that the police have been called. Of course, knowing couldn’t have helped as she’s carting away her appliances, the ones she had moved in a month before - when she sold her house and, after years of living one foot on the platform, decided to commit to building a life with my dad. Why would it have helped.

It makes it worse, and I’m sorry.

— —

You sit on the edge of that bed for longer than reasonable; likely for longer than you had slept. You try, in a way, to wake up from the dream, to escape the gnawing that’s moving up your chest and into your throat, that you didn’t sign up for when you flew up north to visit this summer.

It’s your dad that snaps you out of it, calling you from his friend Mitch’s house. He asks if you’re doing alright, you stammer a “yes” as best you can. He asks you to get dressed, get a few things packed, Mitch will be there soon to pick you up. It was apparently his idea spending the day away from the house, the “threat” was exaggerated, he’s making sure the cops don’t have too much to worry about because God knows these domestic calls have bad results far too often. You manage to nod, slide off the side of your bed. The creak of the floor beneath your feet is muffled by the footfalls of heavy boots walking past your door toward the bathroom.

You get dressed in complete silence. Talking didn’t feel right. Just get it over with. Get dressed and it’ll be over. Pack your bag and it’ll be over. Computer, Switch, a few games and it’ll be over.

You leave the room, mouth squeezed shut, and close the door behind you. The front door is flung wide open and for a second you worry that her cats will get out. At the thought coming to your mind, you shake your head like a mule and keep walking.

There’s a great cavity where the fridge used to be, food strewn at the foot of the closet opposite. On your left, the oven is gone too. The facts register in your mind, but you pass no judgment on them. You just walk, shoulder bag in hand, to the living room and sit down on the couch.

It’s not as though there was any more you could do.

The couple of guys—you hear one call the other “son,” but they don’t look alike—walk in and out, packing around various things she owned. You stare at them blankly as they go, not noticing what they’re carrying out until the two of them walk together with the washing machine on a cart.

The son stops behind his father, waves to you. You stare at him, trying to respond but feeling as though your mouth is dry-glued shut, and fumble into a lopsided almost-shrug. He nods, his mouth quirked, and walks out the door. At the sound of the door slamming behind him, you breathe out deeply and look to your right.

The rabbits are still in their cages. Thank God.

— —

Time leaks as you pet the rabbits, the drips of their water bottles punctuating your breathy crooning; Hello Honey, that’s good isn’t it, Honey. Hey Butterball, goodness you’re so soft. Oh, Licorice, yes I know you need attention so bad don’t you, silly.

Standing in front of Cashmere’s cage, you choke as you kneel down to the lower levels. The rabbit—the biggest of the five, she was always a big girl—huddles at the back of her cage, ears perked up, eyes wide. Her rabbit. Anne’s rabbit. You poke your fingers into her cage, she sniffs them, retreats back to her hiding place.

Defeated, you move to the last cage. Cashew, the little football-shaped rabbit with the tiny ears. She scrabbles at the door, but just as you move to open it you hear Anne’s voice.

Mitch is here, she tells you.

You close your eyes, breathe in, and nod. Turn around. Pick up the bag. Walk out the door. Close the door behind you. Don’t trip on your way down the stairs.

Mitch appears from around the movers’ truck and waves at you. You wave weakly back, before turning to Anne.

You realize, with a shock, that she’s tearing up, her dirty blonde hair frayed, face red.

I guess this is it, she says. I guess so, you respond. She opens her arms and, despite yourself, you drop your bag and surge forward, embracing her.

Take care of yourself, she tells you in a broken voice. I love you.

I love you too.

Her arms squeeze like a vice around your back, before letting go. You force yourself to dam off the tears. Pick up the routine.

Pick up the bag. Turn around. Walk out the entryway. Ignore the movers who stare at you quizzically, even if you want to stare them in the eye and choke out a defense for you-don’t-know-who that you can’t put into words.

Just walk over to Mitch’s truck, and climb in.

— —

You assume she turns around when Mitch pulls away, but you don’t look back. You listen to Mitch complaining about how she did your dad dirty, that he’s sorry you had to go through that.

It’s fine, you tell him. It’s fine.

Everything is always fine.