CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
BUNNY
“She knows-”
She knows? She knows what? And how? How would she know anything at all? Does everyone here just know everything except me? Is this Pandora’s box of my own misery? Am I in Hell?
Muttering under my breath, I hatefully lift the gate latch and wait for three guys to pass by.
The liquor emanating from them stirs my anxiety.
They’re not paying attention to me. Really, I don’t think any of them saw me.
But I still wait close to the gate and take my time latching it shut. Even though I don’t have time.
Razor’s probably already sniffing out my sweat.
The spot he bit earlier burns underneath the sun, causing my shoulders to flex back. Stiffly shaking off the sensation of migrating needles, I step out onto the pavement and walk slowly behind the group of guys shoving each other around.
I’d really like it if they weren’t going in the same direction as me. And I don’t know why that is. Maybe I’m just programmed to fear them or the hand of Carl has made me wary of the entire gender.
Please turn or scamper over to the ice cream.
They don’t.
Additional frustration spikes in my face, locking a target on my tent just a few feet ahead, willing it to travel to me so that I don’t feel like a sheep around wolves.
I don’t love that comparison now that I’m saying it. Wolves do what it takes to survive. Men just do what they want.
Becoming more uncomfortable with their loud laughs and cocky skips, my blood drains cold and the soles of my sneakers scuff to a stop on the pavement, watching the tallest in the middle point to my tent.
“Yo, isn’t that the acrobat with the mask?” he asks, his voice haughty and thick.
Acrobat with the…
That’s all I am. That’s all I’ll ever be to this place. Some piece of meat strung up for entertainment.
The laughs he gets in return churn my stomach, standing in the middle of the sea that seems to never stop moving.
“Think she does kinky shit in there?” the farthest on the left asks, directing his thumb to my sense of safety.
“She’s definitely a fucking whore. Come on, the bunny mask? She’s probably pullin’ dudes to the back every night.”
“Nah, I think she’s a prude,” the one on the right rubs his chin, pretending to have a functioning thought process.
“Let’s go ask.” The asshole in the middle smiles, slapping his palms to the other guys’ backs and shoving them toward my curtains. “Ohh, whatever your name isss,” he sings, cutting me deeper with a sick laugh.
My breaths slow, moving toward them pushing my A-Frame out of the way and sneaking inside. It’s stupid. I know. I cannot explain the compulsion draining me of angst. It’s leaving me calculated but withdrawn, like the rage burying itself deep in my chest is derived from a primal second nature.
I think I’m hunting them. And I can’t stop.
Watching them disappear into my tent, their taunting laughs and hums to “get me to come out” push my feet around to the side. The urgency knotting my bones squats me down in the grass, lifting a stake from the dry soil, not willing to break the tunnel I’m seeing through to scan my surroundings.
I hold on to the hot metal, lifting the loose canvas and lunging from a crouch into my dressing room, silently letting the piece of my tent fall back into place.
Their obnoxious laughs are louder. Closer. Just right on the other side of the red velvet curtains separating us.
Are they… Are they touching my silks?
My hand tightens on the stake, and I kick my shoes off, fading into a high-pitched drill resounding in my head. I should be livid. I’m sure I am. I just don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything besides what’s pumping my limbs with extra blood flow.
Adrenaline.
Instead of it giving me the boost to run, it’s encouraging methodical steps, pumping harder and faster the longer it takes me to stalk up on the curtains.
Brushing the velvet with my knuckle, my stomach dips. It’s a replica of the shuddering excitement Razor instills. And the more I tease the pleated fabric out of my way, the harder it blooms into a mind-numbing thrum.
This is wrong.
But it feels really good.
Submitting to the rush, I nimbly slip through the curtains, setting three targets on the heads basking in the light on my stage. They’re ruthlessly pulling on my silks and taking turns swinging. And that’s when I feel it.
How pissed I am.
Heat climbs my neck, using the socks on my feet to silence my deliberate steps up the stairs.
My heart ticks faster. And faster. And faster.
Sneaking up behind the chauvinist that didn’t want to credit me for my work.
Instead, he wanted to turn my pained passion into something he fetishized for the sake of making his friends laugh.
He’s still staggering back from his turn abusing my silks. But it works for me. I’m able to use his bulky body to hide myself from the other eyes.
Stopping right behind him, close enough for my breath to skim his shirt, I don’t fight the impulse. I couldn’t if I tried. My right arm is swinging into a hook, spearing the sharp edge of the stake into the side of his neck.
The squelch and pressure are invigorating.
My veins crack and pop with euphoria, watching the way his muscles seize his body to stone.
He gurgles, trying to say something that’s drowned in the blood sputtering from his lips.
“Holy fuck!” one of them yells.
The one that called me a whore but couldn’t remember my name is running in my periphery. I’d care… But the crimson pooling from the wound and dripping down this guy’s neck is interesting. It’s poetic.
The thing that kept him alive is now killing him.
He becomes too heavy for my forearm, so I let the stake slip from my grip. His deadweight crashes to the ground, launching a jet of scarlet that splatters loudly on my glossy stage.
Don’t let him get away. He deserves it, too.
My eyes trail to the side, finding the tall guy in the center aisle. He must’ve tripped. He’s clutching the red velvet seats on either side of him and frantically trying to get back on his feet from his knees.
I feel pretty calm, honestly. I’m not consciously sliding over to the axe hidden behind the sandbags. There’s a need for victory moving me on autopilot, my wet hand curling around the stained wood and my feet swiftly carrying me back to the edge of my stage.
He’s almost out. With a few feet to spare before he’s able to run free, I’m double gripping the handle of the axe and rearing it back over my head, using all my might to propel the axe through the air in his direction. “It’s Bunny!”
Thinking he’s about to escape, a twinge of panic shoots my blood pressure up, my toes curling and my teeth gnashing, eyeing my axe oscillating in the air toward him.
He almost gets his hands on the curtain. He reaches for it. But the sharp edge hacks him in the back to the head, stopping him from making it out.
He’ll never leave.
Satisfaction rips up my chest, catching him plummet to the ground before spinning around to the other guy unconscious under the spotlight.
He participated. He’s just as disgusting.
Flowing, I get the stake dislodged from the first guy’s neck and crowd over the one that fainted before I could say my name. It takes him a moment. I think it’s my shadow that stirs him awake.
His eyes pop open and a whimper bobs his throat, shuffling his shoulders to try and slither away from me.
“Is this prude to you?” I ask.
He shakes his head, pleading in gibberish and slobbering, letting out little snot bubbles.
Raising the stake over him, my reflection in his pupil catches my eye. The light is an aura around my malicious hand, triggering a steep drop in my gut. But my brain isn’t getting the memo. As hard as my stomach falls—my hand does, too.
Puncturing through the pressure stabilizing his chest, a loud sear tightens my throat, the wafting stench of hot iron burning the whites of my eyes.
He coughs, projecting a rainfall of blood with the lurch of his body.
Unable to blink or react to the wet warmth smattering my face, I flick down to my hand curled around the last few inches of the metal stake, the outside of my palm pressed firm against his wet chest, and a lethal dose of repulsion sinks me into my grave.
Becoming so heavy I feel weightless, my head spins and my vision jumps, slinking out of a crouch and onto my knees. “Oh, no-no-no-no-no.”
Everything tilts, crawling away from my last victim, blinded by the influx of blood reflecting the glaring spotlight overhead. It’s pooling.
Pooling.
Pooling.
Pooling.
So much is spreading out of the first guy I… I-“Oh, my God. Ohh, my fucking God.”
My stomach knots and I sway to a stop, slipping sideways onto my butt, straight into the sticky liquid draining from a shanked neck.
Dreadful shakes abate the high I was woven into, disassociating on the pungent pool that’s quickly surrounding me.
Why did I do that? Why couldn’t I control it? I could’ve just told them to get out and run if they tried something. I’m good at that. I’m good at running. So, why did I just ruin my life?
Life… What life?
Oh, Jesus, I’m falling into a spiral. My head is orbiting and I can’t see anything other than the blood getting all over me.
“Hey, baby, it’s okay.”
Razor’s rushed, sweet hum infiltrates my psyche. I think I’m just hallucinating, until the Converse he treasures are stopping right in front of me, the white rubber soles and black canvas already drenched.
He crouches, tugging my attention from a fuzzy hole, up to the glisten sparkling in his eyes as he brings his hands around my waist.
I ran from him when I saw him hack the same axe into Junior. But he’s here with me. He’s pulling me into his arms and holding me. As if the massacre he just walked into is my throne and he’s here to worship.
“It’s okay.” He rubs my back, squeezing me closer to his chest, then quickly loosens his arms, guiding my face away from his shirt by my neck. “Focus on me, pretty girl. It’s okay. Don’t even worry about it.”
His coos and gentle strokes across my face make my nose burn, the tingle running up to my eyes, releasing the version of me I’m used to.
Not this. I don’t know what the hell this is but it’s freaking me out and I feel sick and-
“Breathe,” he warns.
I didn’t realize I started hyperventilating. My chest is heaving and my lungs are struggling, the fast scrapes of air turning the carousel back on in my head.
“Bunny,-” he cups my face with both hands, tilting my head back far enough to only see him in the light “-did they touch you?”
The question tents my chest. My lips quiver and my throat locks to hold it all in, but the raspy cry is breaking out as I shake my head.
Because they didn’t. They didn’t touch me. They touched my things. And I turned into an executioner.
“Hey, hey, shh.” Wiping my tears with his thumbs, he stabilizes my head, searching every inch of my face with a whisper of a grin. “You’re a star. It’s okay to shine.”
“Th-th-that’s not o-okay.” My chest constricts, losing sight of him to the sob tensing my entire body.
“It is.” Continuing to wipe my tears, he waits until I get my eyes cracked back open, using the edge of his thumb to clear the wet beads clustering my lashes. “They weren’t good, little bunny. You felt that.”
“What? H-how would I-”
“Ohh, fuck.”
The sound of Cash’s wavering panic turns us over to him standing at the entrance, his hands palming the top of his head and his saucers for eyes aimed at the guy with an axe sticking out of him.
“Great, everyone’s gonna know now,” I cry, squeezing my eyes shut, hoping this is just a bad dream.
I try to convince myself. I try to take my mind back to bed, envision the spearing moonlight giving life to my dark room. But the busy rides and dings sandwiched between chatter on the outside of my tent is distracting, forcing me to accept the bloodbath I’m sitting in—in the middle of the day.
“Look at me.” Razor sweeps his thumb along my lips, getting eye to eye with my watery focus. “I will never let anything happen to you ever again. You understand me? We’ll take care of this.”
“Again?” I waver.
A pensive grin thins his lips and he nods.