Rabbit lifts his head as Bob walks into the room. Bob, a grimy, filthy spectacle, scratches his groin through thin, navy boxers, his only article of clothing. He doesn't look at Rabbit. Dragging his bare feet across the floor, he goes to the fridge and jerks it open, bathing both him and Rabbit in brilliantly fake white light. A chill passes over Bob as the fridge breathes out its cold, icy breath onto his naked skin. Rabbit curls his knee closer to his chest, unintentionally rattling the chain that has him forever bound to the walls.
Bob selects a beer and mindlessly holds it out to Rabbit, who immediately takes it and unscrews the lid, and hands it back. With shuffling feet, Bob goes to the den and plops down on the greasy, yellow chair.
Rabbit claws and picks at the frayed edges of his blanket, but it offers him little comfort. He presses his left temple into the side of the wall, eyes downcast. But with his ears he can see all that Bob is doing, for he knows his routine well. Sit on the chair, sip a beer, turn on the TV, change the channel. Call for Rabbit.
Suddenly Bob begins patting the side of his leg, as if dusting his pants or summoning a dog. But Rabbit knows this is his call. He rises from the cot in the kitchen and sits in the floor between Bob's knees.
"Did you work on the scrapbook today?" Bob asks.
Rabbit swallows, staring down at their feet. Bob's are hairy, while Rabbit's are quite bare. Bob's are also so much bigger than Rabbit's. He feels small, and hugs onto his knees to see how small he can really be.
"Rabbit?"
"No," Rabbit answers instantly. "I didn't. I... I didn't know you wanted me to."
The chair groans as Bob leans forward, his scruffy chin a mere inch from Rabbit's ear. "Do I have to spell everything out for you?" He asks.
Rabbit tenses up, feeling Bob's hot words against his cheek.
"Go, now," Bob says, sitting back in the chair. "Work on it until, uh... Until you've caught up with today's."
Rabbit gets up wordlessly and goes back to the kitchen, holding his chain like a wounded tail. He gathers up all the newspapers and blue plastic scissors and the book and sits at the kitchen table, where he begins to search, find, and cut out sections that speak about missing girls. He works late into the night, fighting back his exhaustion, until he notices that Bob is asleep.
He pauses, holding his breath. The TV casts odd lights and shadows onto Bob's face. The low humming of TV voices drone as a constant background noise. Rabbit glances at the scrapbook, noting his place, and stands.
He lifts the chain from the floor, preventing it from making noise, and carefully walks into the den.
Bob snores softly, his mouth hanging open, drool clinging to his unkempt facial hair. His massive belly rises and falls as he sucks in every breath. An obvious errection bulges from within the folds of his underwear.
Rabbit creeps forward, his nerves twitching, the chain growing wet in his hands from sweating palms. He looks at the TV and swiftly turns it off.
Bob grunts and rolls his head to the side, closing his mouth and smacking his lips.
Rabbit sees the beer bottle lying beside the chair, its contents settling stickily on the cold wooden floor. Kneeling down, he stands the bottle up, and from this position, he lifts his head and stares up at Bob.
His appearance is at once terrifying and grotesque. Yet Rabbit cannot deny his feelings of fondness for the very man who sexed and killed his mother. Bob has, after all, gifted him with knowledge when he could have simply killed him as well.
Rabbit lays down at his feet, careful not to disturb the chain. He stares at the black TV, faintly making out their reflections. It is cold in the floor, but Rabbit is used to the cold. Bob grunts again, and the sudden noise makes Rabbit flinch. But silence resumes its place, and Rabbit closes his eyes.
Time drips from the faucet of life, slowly, unnoticed. The house shifts and settles with low creeks and moans. Rabbit had left the light on in the kitchen, and its bulb is beginning to falter. Odd flashes and flicks of yellow light sputter across the room as its willpower fades away. Hours crawl by like spiders across the ceiling. Though it is well into the night, dawn is still quite a long way off.
Then, due to a nightmare, Bob awakes. He opens his eyes to the dim room, squinting despite it. His dream is instantly forgotten, though the thin feeling of danger still looms nearby. His back is stiff. He extends his legs to stretch, but his feet kick into something soft and warm.
Rabbit jolts awake with an alarmingly loud rattling of chains. He sits up and looks at Bob with wide eyes.
"What the fuck?" Bob barks, then kicks again, harder, purposefully.
Rabbit flinches but doesn't run away.
"What are you doing down there, Rabbit, huh?" Bob demands heatedly.
Rabbit avoids his eyes.
"You little shit, what do you think you're doing?" Bob snaps, seizing onto Rabbit's chain and jerking him towards him until he could reach his hair.
His fat fingers dig into Rabbit's scalp as he forces Rabbit to look him in the eye. Rabbit says nothing. Bob's gaze drifts over him to the kitchen, where he sees all the scrapbook mess still lying on the table.
"D'you finish the scrapbook like I asked? No, I bet you didn't. You never do anything right, you fucker." He shoves Rabbit away, releasing his hair. "Go on, now, finish your work! You won't be gettin' any breakfast in the morning, I can promise you that!"
Rabbit scrambles to his feet and into the kitchen, where he sits at the table. He stares at the papers and glue, unable to make sense of any of it. But then he remembers where he'd left off, and he begins working again.
Bob grumbles curses under his breath, watching Rabbit until his eyes grow heavy, and he at last slips back into sleep.
...
The next morning, Bob eats the cereal and milk that Rabbit sets out for him. But instead of leaving his bowl on the table for Rabbit to finish, Bob takes it to the sink and rinses it down the drain. Rabbit does not protest.
Still chewing his food, Bob pauses at the garage door and faces Rabbit. He points at the pantry. "If you so much as touch a single Cheerio in that box, I'll know about it. You're not to eat anything until I come home and say so. Got it?"
Rabbit nods.
Bob sniffs and nods back. "Good," he mutters, then leaves the house.
Rabbit waits, still and silent, until he hears the taxi rumble out of the garage and the garage shut behind it. Then he goes to his cot and lays down on top of the blanket, tucked up like a child on his side, closing his eyes.
The sharp, persistant buzzer wakes him up. He leaps from the cot and hurries to the door, unlocking the locks as fast as his trembling hands will allow. He backs up into the kitchen just in time, for Bob jerks open the door.
In comes a woman with red hair, curly, long. She's wearing a black blouse and white pants. Her shoes are missing and her feet are bloody. Tears run down her face in dirty mascara lines. She looks at Rabbit. Her eyes are greener than any grass Rabbit had ever seen.
"No, no, please, let me go, please, stop, please!" The woman begs impractically. Impractical, because there is no escape.
Rabbit looks away as Bob wrenches her arm behind her back, forcing her to scream. She wails and cries and pleads for mercy, but Bob is not a merciful fellow. He leads the woman away down the hall to his bedroom, where he shuts the door with a thud.
Rabbit sits down between his cot and the stove, pushing himself into the corner as tight as he can go. He does not wish to hear the screams, but that does not mean he can't.