The grass was long and they were kind of in a little divot and they were scared and crouching down into little balls and I couldn't really see anything in front of me and I wasn't really paying attention anyway so it really wasn't my fault if you think about it.
Who am I kidding? I'm a murderer. I'm a heartless sadist with no respect for life and I'm a damned murderer. I buried my head in my hands and fell to my knees amidst a Gettysburg of wet grass cakes and bloody tufts of rabbit fur. Memories of my childhood flanked my brain with images of cute, floppy-eared bunnies clicking and popping behind my eyelids like an old projector. My third grade class pet, Bugsy, was crying and remorsefully shaking his head for his slain cousins, scattered in pieces throughout the crab grass. All the beautiful images of Peter Rabbit I remembered from story books as a child were immediately tainted by spiraling entrails and spattered blood, all flinging from a pair of whirring, razor sharp lawnmower blades located somewhere off the page. The Easter Bunny himself made an appearance, crawling towards me with no back legs like a zombie from a cheap b-list horror flick.
I shook the images from my brain and regained composure, glancing left, then right to ensure none of my neighbors saw my temporary yet traumatic breakdown. After brushing the grass off my clothes I took one more look at the carnage that lay before me and reluctantly realized the task at hand. After all, I got myself into this mess and now it was time to assess and clean up collateral damage. There was no repair involved. I could not right this wrong- only clean it up.
My stomach was churning when I exited my house holding a trash bag. I felt I should be wearing a navy blue windbreaker with yellow CORONER or CSI printed on the back to declare that I was obligated to be there and not some finicky lawn enthusiast callously picking up rabbit pieces to keep stray dogs from dumping in my yard. Fortunately, the pieces were indiscernible and even with my eyes closed it only took a few minutes. Rabbit fur is unbelievably soft.
I bowed my head and said a few words before dropping the Glad bag into the trash bin with a mushy thud of a finale. It didn't quite bring the closure I was looking for and I knew it would take some time for my mental stability to make a full comeback. I wonder if Medicaid covers Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
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