Bunny

         His name, I think, was David. A few years older, tall and slim, he had black curls and a hairline that would haunt him by his twenties. But he was a tormentor. Cross him and, wielding his bat, he’d behead your mailbox. Tell your parents and he’d nail your pet to a tree.
         He didn’t say my name. He wouldn’t have bothered to know it. I felt a sick mix—desire injected into fear—to be welcomed, to be chosen.
         “Come here! It’s incredible.”
         “What is?”
         Sunlight crowned his head.
         “This rabbit had babies, a whole litter.”
         “Bunnies?” Why would this excite him? Were some wonders undeniable? “Where?”
         He jabbed a thumb toward his backyard. “In my tree fort.”
         “Really?” How could a rabbit have gotten up there? I peered past him, scanned the spine of boards.
But when he asked, “Wanna see?” I did want to see. At age 11, I trusted this world enough to say, “Show me.”
         Past the ice blue siding an oak rose, its lime-grey bark scored with slats. He climbed them and I followed. Having roamed in a boy pack, I considered myself tough. But as my head emerged through the floor, my gut flipped.
         Two of his friends crouched, circling the hole. Unthinking, I scurried to the wall, cornering myself.
         “What gives?” David asked, his voice a chuckle. “I thought you wanted to see the bunnies.”
         The fort was a windowless, jagged shadow. It was possible the bunnies were behind the hunching boys. I studied their angular, sweat-streaked faces. One cocked his head and I lunged.
David got there first, flipping the plank that sealed the door.
         I felt my mind stumble and zag: What did they want? What would they do?
         “Please don’t kiss me,” I muttered.
         They cackled:
         “Don’t worry!”
         “We won’t!”
         David grabbed my wrist and I understood: he wanted that. Wildly, I slapped him across the biceps, the neck. He reared back, laughing. “Look at Bunny go.”
         I whimpered and slowly, sickly understood that my terror amused him.    
One sidekick drew back, conscience quivering his mouth. He flipped the board, the clack a shock. I darted to the hole and down, planks scratching and skinning. As I raced home, houses and their chimneys seemed as flimsy as cardboard. Wood had softened. Brick was sand.
                                                                                             ***
         Later that summer, I was fetching mail from the box at the end of my drive. The air shifted, and I froze. Facing up the street, I heard tires squealing, a tailpipe booming. Something struck me and I spun. Backside burning, I sighted a brown Chevy swerving away. Guffaws trailed it. Out its curbside windows, stretched arms ended in paddle-formed hands.
         Thoughts gathered like bracelet beads:
         They had come from behind.
         They had pounded my ass.
         Shame inflamed my cheeks. They hadn’t called me Bunny but it felt connected—incidents rooted in some innate, unspeakable sin.
                                                                                             ***

         When I was 20, I worked a summer job in New York City. From 3-11 p.m., I supervised housekeeping at a trendy hotel. I had scanned the want ads for weeks, searching beyond my experience and major, hearing no, no, no. Then an effeminate man in a tailored gray suit strolled through a ballroom hiring event, pointing you and you and you.  
         Bustling by day, Midtown East was a graveyard by night. After my shift, waiting for the bus, I stood under a streetlamp, reading. I always return to the act: reading. How dumb to assume I could ease into joy.
         I sensed him before I saw him—hulking, beady-eyed, intent. I felt my insides coiling inward, my mouth missing words.

                                                                                             ***

         I was spared, enough. I limped away and toward a grand jury where, in the front row, an elegant blonde gaped in horror. Numbly, I relayed his rage when my trembling, unzipping hand revealed no cash inside my fanny pack. But I had a bank card. But I had a body.
         “Smile,” he stated, “or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
         I smiled—cheeks straining, tears streaming.
         If only, I thought, I could run, I could live. Sweat poured down my shins, pooling in my black flats, a glue trap.
         If only I could remove my shoes, I could run.
         He elbowed me toward the alley.
         So this is my life. This is my death.
         A memory jolted my skull: my mother kneeling, beseeching, thumbs pressed into the insides of my five-year-old wrists so I would LISTEN. Rattled by a local abduction, she needed me to absorb, “If a stranger takes you away, you’ll never come home again.”
         Never, ever.
         I nodded, obedient. I promised I’d kick, scream, scratch, and bite—anything it took to stay with my mom.
My anything was a white plastic bag of leftover Chinese food. Twisted in panic, the handle seared my palm. I flung the bag into his face. Surprise bought time to unglue my feet. I ran into the monochrome high-end lobby and shrieked like a five-year-old, “Dial 911!”
                                                                                             ***

         I was Julius Smith’s third strike. With a rap sheet of rape and assault, he might serve his life sentence. But that gives me no comfort or pause. I limped away a bunny, floppy limb tucked under my coat. I’d duck on the subway, in stores, whenever a man reached beneath his lapel. I expected darkness around each corner. Eventually, I swallowed the timidity, and it dissolved through my limbs. Any mistreatment knocked like whiplash, yet a part of me had anticipated it, perhaps even asked for it.
                                                                                             ***

         Some girls stay with me, ones killed despite their anything. Through them, I understand the fault isn’t ours. They were young, vibrant, with robust confidence and glistening skin. They preened, and why not? They were gems. One smoked a cigarette outside a concert arena. One basked in agile dance at an outdoor festival. Then a shadow appeared, a creature with the power and thirst to wrest all they were from all they could be. Perhaps they were too lovely to stomach. Maybe some souls are photophobic so, in certain light, they gnash and defile. No wonder the blood lust and insatiableness. Instead of sympathy, they garner mass revulsion. Creepy loner or demented pack, they are beings of the dirt. Meanwhile, these women wrench the hearts of millions. Their ground bones rise as stars.