The Bloody Truth
a double abecedarian predator/prey central metaphor very classy (eh)
A mean, gnashing-teeth wolf chases down the rabbit. The anger
boils over, nothing left but soft, blood-stained fur and a guilty whine.
Chasing is meant to be a game played by two equals. No one expects this
dashing to end with ears back, tail between legs, six sick kind-of-
epiphanies dragged out to the very brutal end. It licks its teeth, spits out
fur. It can’t forgive itself for this transgression, no, its aggression; it has
gone too far. That’s what happens when you let it slip out of your
hands.
It's never as simple for the rabbit. Flight, freeze, fawn. No fight. She won’t know
justice, because justice isn’t wild. She died for something she couldn’t comprehend.
Knowing is one thing, choosing is another; if she had just run faster, maybe her
legs would have carried her farther. If she had just known sooner, maybe her
might wouldn’t have failed her. Blame the dead one, after all, they always do.
Never has the lakefront been so melancholy. Does the wolf feel remorse? Is it too
overcome, too guilty to even drink from the water for fear of seeing its own reflection?
Peace is not simple to attain or adhere to.
Quiet girls are good girls. To be seen and not heard is the cardinal rule. You must
respect your father, he is the man of this house. You must abide by his rules, his
sensibilities. If you are caught lacking he’ll take you out back like a dog by the scruff.
Tension heightens in the forest. Are girls wild like rabbits? Are we wild like wolves?
Universality is a cause for concern. But can’t I hope that someone else is like me, but full of
vitality and wild strength? Unafraid and steadfast? Maybe the rabbit fears the wolf’s
withholding rather than its teeth. Maybe the rabbit wants a closer look inside the wolf, wants an
X-ray of its body to understand the innerworkings. “You should’ve seen it coming,” the professor told the rabbit. “Who would trust a wolf?”
Zoology teaches predator and prey, survival of the fittest.
The rabbit forgot to take notes.
A fate of damnation, to be a girl, to be a rabbit. And if you wait too long in your rage, it will
bloom out of you in a way you cannot control. And after, when you see your reflection, you
catch a glimpse of the wolf. Just for a second. Just a blip. If you aren’t careful, it will
devour you, like the wolf devours the rabbit. In the most ideal circumstance, you cannot
escape it. The wolf was made to hunt. To haunt. The rabbit may run, but she’ll never truly
flee to freedom.
Gnashing teeth flash as the wolf kills again. It can’t help it. This is the way it
has to be. How did the wolf get here, if not by way of death? Life is a circle, and a chain,
in the natural world it’s kill or be killed, at least for the rabbit. What predators do wolves have?
Just humans, but that’s against the law, except in special circumstances.
Killing is a privilege. A demonstration of strength, a tool to survive but also to oppress.
Love cannot undo oppression or death. Love can suffocate, it can inspire, it can
manipulate, it can heal. But love cannot undo what has already been done, it cannot invert
nature.
Oh, poor rabbit. Her blood pools where her body once lain, devastated, before being
picked up & picked at until there was nothing but bone. She always tried her best to be
quiet. She hid, or ran, because she didn’t want this to happen, but it did. At least the wolf
respects the rabbit enough to eat her. If she had been hit by a car or shot or killed by
someone’s German shepherd, her body would be abandoned in the middle of the road or in
the bushes of someone’s yard. A death that wouldn’t have helped something else live.
Uncertainty prevails.
Vultures find her pile of bones, hunched around her in a crowd to see if there’s any meat left.
Wild. It’s all wild. We’re all wild. Even humans, so far gone from nature; their morals and
Xanax and technology. All the trouble they’ve created for themselves, all the
years passed since they knew what it was like to discover firsthand, since before day
zero.