Rabbit at knife point

I once held a dirty white rabbit a few years ago, in a lush green valley,  Standing on a bridge as the soon – to -flood -the – valley river roared underneath. Threatening with each magnificent swell. 

 It was thin and it shook violently with each passing second. I had my finger comfortably nestled between two bones of its little trembling rib cage and I cried. 

I draw similarities between the rabbit and myself now, only I am shaking harder. 

Flip goes one page, then two, then two hundredth. Click goes one spreadsheet, then two, then ten. Sigh goes one hour, then two, then eight and spiralling down goes the urge to look out of the office window and watch the sky, gathering up the clouds for what would be a menacing evening of never ending rain.

My windscreen fogged up as I got closer to home, one meter a minute. The day was finally over, I mulled. No, it was far from over. There was more humiliation to be self inflicted, there was still peace to rend and there is still some bravery to be defeated, to be kept on knife point, as it drops to the ground on its scraped knees. 

Still on the ground, head hung to a side, away from the knife point, rain washing away my pride, I manage to look up, for on final act of kindness, I hope to evoke one stir of mad memory. None. 

I smile as the knife retreats. That’s right. You not only defeat bravery, you also gift it as a memory,wrapped in the reddest of shame.


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