Days pass and Rabbit has all but forgotten the feeling of being off the chain. He tries to stay out of Bob's way, serving him dilegently as required, but then retreating to his bed. As though he was turned back into the nine year old boy, he slinks and ducks and hides his face in submissive fear and acceptance. He does not expect life to ever get any better.
Bob follows his own rut around the house, tromp tromp tromping from the kitchen to the recliner to the fridge, then back to the recliner and eventually to his bedroom.
Some days he brings home a woman, some days he doesn't.
Though he doesn't want to admit it, Bob feels like the pleasure in kidnapping and raping strangers is dwindling away. It's not quite guilt, but something deeper, more foriegn, because in no way has Bob begun to feel bad for hurting the women, no. That part still gives him that sick thrill in the pit of his stomach. He can't explain it, and he doesn't want to try.
...
One evening Bob sits reading the newspaper, half-way watching TV whenever he hears something that may prove interesting.
Rabbit lays on his cot, his eyes open but unfocused. He stares across the kitchen to the fridge and the sink and beyond. Everything is blurred and hazy, and he thinks how nice it would have been if he were born blind.
"Rabbit."
Or deaf, he adds after flinching from Bob's harsh spit of gravelly words. His eyes swivel to the recliner in the den and Rabbit slowly sits up, glaring at Bob, who isn't paying him any mind.
"Come, Rabbit," Bob calls, whacking the side of his leg with the newspaper.
Rabbit slips his feet to the floor and pads silently over to Bob. Silent, apart from the heavy rusting chain pulling unevenly after him.
"Here, take this. On page 4b there's a section on the rise of kidnappings over the years. Cut it out and paste it in the scrapbook."
Bob glances at Rabbit as he takes the newspaper, then looks back at the TV.
Rabbit stands there stubbornly, staring at him, unmoving, the newspaper clinched between white-knuckled fingers.
Bob's eyes remain glued to the TV, his lips parted slightly, saliva reflecting the screen's continuously changing light. He feels Rabbit watching him and turns his head sharply.
"Get on with you! Go!" He snaps, smacking at Rabbit's hand.
Rabbit takes a subtle step back, and Bob misses him. Bob gives Rabbit a look of utter disgust, and Rabbit, relatively satisfied, turns on his heel and drags his chained self back to the kitchen.
...
Another day crumbles away.
For breakfast Rabbit makes Bob biscuits and gravy. Home-made.
He had found an old cookbook a few weeks ago in the back of the pantry under soggy, stained cardboard boxes of expired canned goods. Most of the pages were ruined beyond understanding, but a few pages were good and the biscuits and gravy recipe was one of them. It hadn't taken him long to memorize how to make it. Naturally, after he had his fill of the cookbook, he would put it back exactly where he found it. Bob would never find out.
Bob eats breakfast, a bit surprised how delicious it is. For a moment, he wonders if perhaps Rabbit is trying to poison him. But none of my books talk about that, do they? His mind whirls and his heart races as the sweet biscuit melts on his tongue, so good it's scary. He eats half of it, deliberately mixing it all together, then pretends to be full. He pushes the plate across the table to Rabbit, who sits solemnly on his bed.
"Here," Bob says.
Rabbit hesitates, noting the strangeness of Bob's expression. He knows this must be some kind of test. Swallowing dryly, Rabbit sits on his knees in front of the table. The warm plate of food steams up into his nostrils, and his tongue goes wet with longing. Rabbit is sure Bob will rip the plate away before he can taste it, but then he looks up and Bob hands him his fork.
Rabbit takes it and stabs it into a soft lump of biscuit, smooshing it around in the gravy before pushing it into his mouth. The flavor is better than Rabbit had expected. Warm, fluffy, wet with sticky, brown gravy. He slurps the food off the fork to keep drool from running out between his lips. He eats ravenously, his hunger suddenly apparent. But before he can eat more than one biscuit, Bob pulls the plate back.
"Okay, okay," Bob grunts jealously. "I'm not done, yet." He jerks the fork from Rabbit's limp fingers and greedily cleans the plate.
Rabbit stays on the floor in front of the table. He watches the food lift off the plate and vanish into Bob's mouth like a dog. His stomach pinches, his appetite only just whetted. Bob literally wipes the plate clean with his thick, red tongue, leaving nothing to offer. But with a growing, boiling anger, Rabbit stiffens and does not say a word.
...
Later, Bob brings home a woman.
Her hair is a tangle of brown and blonde, her crismson lips drip with blood. Her bright blue eyes roll beneath half-closed lids.
Bob holds her by the nape of her neck, squeezing the soft skin, forcing her to submit.
Out of her mouth whimpers a sound like a kitten, and Rabbit is immediately engraged.
"Rabbit," Bob says as he shoves the woman in through the garage door. "Rabbit, get out of the way."
Rabbit stares. His lips tremble with fear, his knees begin to shake. His heart flutters and his lungs seem to reject the act of breathing.
"No," Rabbit says, his voice coming out much weaker than he desires.
"Rabbit," Bob begins, but then the woman tries to twist out from under his grasp, and his patience darts away. He swings out and punches Rabbit on the cheek.
Like an old rug, Rabbit is flung to the side, his shoulder crunching against the kitchen counter. He thumps to the floor and lays there quietly, his face pulsing and his eyes whelling with tears.
Bob pushes the woman forward, but she struggles to step over Rabbit and his chain. Bob just pushes her more until she manages, his fingers digging into her neck. He leads her away, into the bedroom. A few breathless moments of silent pass, then Rabbit starts to cry as he hears the woman scream.
...
Bob hasn't noticed, but Rabbit has been growing thin. Not only because he hasn't been getting enough to eat. Stress, worry, anger, depression, these things and others are dragging Rabbit down.
Rabbit has always worn baggy clothes. They were Bob's old ones, after all. But his clothes have started to hang looser and looser. Rabbit doesn't mind. It bothered him a little at first, but he's already grown accustomed to the way his ribs stick out, the soft bumps in his skin when he rubs his hands down his sides.
It has become painful for Rabbit to lay on his side, for it feels as though he's laying on bone alone. Forced to lay on his back, Rabbit gazes up at the ceiling at night, nightmares keeping him from sleep, and wonders when he will die.
...
There's a particularly difficult crust of food on the casserole dish.
Rabbit had been scrubbing it methodically with a rag, but when its filth refused to come off, he began scraping at it with his fingernails. Under the lukewarm stream of water, his nails grow soft and bend backwards easily against the lump of burnt-on grit. Chips of it grinds its way beneath his nails, penetrating the soft, unexposed skin. Prickles of sharp pain sparks in his fingers, and Rabbit winces but does not stop.
Bob, on the recliner, dozes in and out of sleep as the news on TV and the constant running faucet create low background noise.
If Rabbit stops washing the dishes, he fears that Bob will suddenly awaken and rush to his side, demanding why. Why stop before your task is completed? He might ask. Rabbit claws into the burnt food, biting back his shaky breath as his nails begin to bleed, tinting the dirty sink water with a light pink hue.
He would rather suffer in this manner than risk being punished.
...
Still a bit out of breath from the exertion, Bob wipes the blood from his hands and the tears from his eyes, sniffling slightly as he stares down unappealingly at the mess he just made.
A girl, couldn't have been a day older than Rabbit, lay at his feet. He knew that it was a girl because he had seen her before he ruined away her features. But if a stranger walked in and beheld the sight, they would not know what they were looking at.
Her dust-colored skin, once so taught and supple, now lay marred open and the flesh beneath hung open in sour red patches. Globs and chunks of blood and skin splatted around her in a delirious halo. Her eyes, which had been a deep, deep brown, are graying out in death as they stare into oblivion. The girl's hair used to be brown, but, streaked with blood and twisted into uncombable tangles, in the dim, wavering light, it appears black.
Bob taps her left breast with his big toe, and it is cold and squishy. Nothing like it had been minutes before, when she kicked and screamed and clawed, her body full of heat, only stimulating Bob further.
He could not have stopped the knife even if he had wanted to. He looks down at her stomach that could have possibly just been desposited with his own child, but a hole is where her belly button used to be. A glorious, bitter-smelling, red-oozing hole. Her lower intestenes hang out of the hole mixed with thick, rusting blood.
Sickening.
Bob wipes his hands on his pants once more, but the stain remains.