MicroHorror

I have two rabbits in my act, always two. One of them is named Clover and enjoys ravaging lettuce leaves off of a saucer near my feet while I prepare my own meager dinner. The other one never lives long enough to earn a name; it is placed within an “enchanted” golden box before a rapt audience, and crushed quickly and painlessly when the force of my entire upper body descends on it. I present its pathetic, ruined body and blood-dewed fur to the crowd, and then after a series of flourishes inspired by mystics of the Orient, the creature suddenly revives entirely–or rather, Clover has emerged from my secret sleeve, and the wet baggage of her double has taken residence there, its blood cooling as it soaks through the lining and tattoos my underthings with wet roses. Clover takes a bow, to thunderous applause; we both dine well on show nights.

Two rabbits, two cages. But last night there was a terrific clamor on the stairs as I stood in my room perfecting my technique in the mirror; a false alarm, a large chamber pot (and not the tiny maid carrying it) had tumbled and emptied its contents onto the landing. When I returned to my room a moment later, two pairs of identical eyes greeted me from the floor. Two blank curious faces, interchangeable in their beauty and innocence, one of them destined to share my pillow, the other to bleed in my pocket and swim in my stew.

Later, in the wings, I watch the red-faced man with the poodle act as he guides his pups through candy-colored hoops. The audience coos; deep down, they know how often a dog must be whipped to learn those tricks–but aren’t our grim lives made so much richer by these splendid flashes of magic? I understand their desperate laughter as I brood over the stowed creature nestled close to my body; it feels like an alien thing to me, a malignant cuckoo’s egg. Opening the box beside me, I reach in with one hand to fondle its cargo, begging silently for a spark of recognition as I caress its anonymous features in the darkness. Clover?

“You’re on,” hisses the pock-faced stagehand. The moment the spotlight smites my eyes and the stamping crowd booms, I feel a sudden stiff kick against my inner thigh, then another. But it is too late! Small claws dig into my flesh as I clamber through the routine, sweatily producing a long-stemmed rose from a woman’s décolletage and turning a decanter of milk into sour wine. I can’t stop now, the audience already knows what the golden box is for; it’s what they came for. With trembling hands I remove the lid and lift Clover high for their appraisal. I straighten myself to my full height and steel myself for the grand finale.

May 6th, 2007

I received the questionnaire from my high school reunion committee today. I think it was someone’s idea of a joke to include me; I’m sure no one wants to know what I have to say. I told Dr. Brewer and he said I should fill it out, even if I don’t wind up sending it. I said I’d think it over.

May 9th, 2007

I feel better today; less angry. Maybe it’s the questionnaire. I stayed up late working on it, long after lights-out. Ten years! Some questions are a lot easier than others. I got stuck on “What have you been up to since high school?” because everyone knows the answer mainly, which is nothing much. But it was nice to finally transcend the old high school bullshit on questions like “Do you have a message you’d like to share with your fellow classmates?” I wrote that there are as many ways to live as there are people in the world, and that I hoped everyone else had gotten to figure that out too. The questionnaires are going to all be printed into a booklet that everyone will get a copy of. I hope someone remembers to send me one. I’d like to see what others are up to now.

May 21st, 2007

Fucking impossible. I’ve written and rewritten it so many times. Dr. Brewer wouldn’t let me mail it as-is. He said it would upset people, and that he knew that no matter what I was feeling now, I didn’t want that. I was just trying to be honest, but when I told him that his eyes got that glassy troubled look and I found out later that he changed my meds after our meeting. This last week has been a blur; I don’t remember anything. All my hair seems to be gone, and my scalp feels crusty and scorched in places. I don’t know if this is because of something I did, or something they did. I rewrote the part about my “most embarrassing moment from high school” so that it was less damning. I guess I don’t want anyone else to feel responsible. I don’t have any hard feelings anymore.

June 1st, 2007

I decided not to mail it after all! I tore it up into shreds in front of Dr. Brewer so he could see how much better I’ve gotten at letting things go. He seemed very proud of me! My head is clear again, and for the first time in years I feel capable of making plans, having dreams. I’d forgotten what it felt like to have a plan. I work in the garden, moving earth, and shock myself with the possibilities.

I have a visit home scheduled for October, five whole days! My parents have promised to supervise me and make sure I get my medicine. I didn’t tell Dr. B, but I’m pretty sure the visit overlaps with the weekend of the reunion! I wrote down the date in the back cover of the Bible my parents gave me for Christmas. I’ve been fantasizing about giving Mom and Dad the slip that night and actually showing up–poor old folks don’t know shit about pills. I bet no one would even recognize me there. I’ve lost so much weight! I don’t really know if I could get away with it, but if I can, I will. I’d like to find out whose idea it was to send me the questionnaire. Tell some people a few of my answers to those questions in person. I’d like to think I would be welcome, have been forgiven after all these years, as I have forgiven myself. It’s not like they have anything to worry about, we’re all safe from each other now. Anyone I had a problem with is long gone. I already took them out ten years ago.

I wonder if Dad has a tie I can borrow.