Rabbit Run - 500 words

Updated: Nov 16, 2019

Untamed anxiety forces you into realising you’re a half-empty pill bottle, shaking as he moves around you. He can’t dissect his thoughts and put them back together. You can’t predict what’s going to happen next. He doesn’t see he’s bringing a bull to a dog show.

The tips of his skeleton fingers threaten you as he lifts them to eye level. His tall glass of water frame dehydrates.

Usually he’d have to be provoked, but rabbits are more fun to toy around with. Passive, so they never lose their innocence. There are two methods to animals like him. The first is poison. Poisonous animals won’t actively attack their pray, as passive creatures, they mostly release their toxin while being eaten. Effectively, if you’re dumb enough to eat one, you die.

That brings you to the second method, venom.

Venom is the one you and him are going to play with today. You can tell he’s always wanted to try it out. He’s just never found the undeserving prey for it. Until he found you.

He can still strike with a closed mouth. He can’t go days without feeding like other reptiles.

He doesn’t make a sound. No one will hear this.

With your eyes closed, you can’t force your eyes a glance at his direction.

You can’t rabbit run. You can’t zig zag in your path and avoid fate. You can only watch the cats leap outside, and the dogs take cover under tables.

Revealing his cobra tongue, he lets out enough venom to make even God flinch. Your limbs spasm. You crawl back into the foetal position. Your instincts have taken hold.


Limbs wrapped around your neck; he’s taking your breath away.

Head spinning, stomach twisting, you’re being rinsed of all substance.

Though you know he already strangled your soul before laying a hand on you.

You wait for a climax, an ending, a relief. It never comes.

You feel the pressure from squeezing your eyes too hard; they want to burst too.

Is this the end?

Is this the man with the scythe with the hooded cloak everyone’s been telling me about?

Do I deserve this?

Will I wake up in Heaven?

Does God even like me?

Your vocal cords pulsate, with your sandpaper throat, do you even remember making a sound?

No use screaming at strangers for help. You can feel the walls hug you as they close in.

There’s no use bringing a baby lamb to slaughter, but that doesn’t mean the capture isn’t a reward for him.

You think of your last words.

Will they be remembered?

Will he even hear them?

It’s then you realise he isn’t shooting to kill; he’s just shooting to torture.

It won’t end tonight.

It’s hours since he’s been in the room, yet his phantom remains.

The animals stay scattered around the house, ignoring the scene that unfolded.

You can only pray that the adrenaline is enough to kill you first.

You can only hope Apollo beats the python in this story.

Your pupils remain wide and dilated past 3am. At least he’s giving you night vision.

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