So, I found a spot beneath a tree and dug a small hole in the dirt. I ladled his little body from the ground and said a prayer before tossing him in the tiny pit I had opened.

I stood there at his grave for what felt like hours. Then, when darkness leeched through the trees, I packed my things, headed for my car, and drove back home.

As I sit here at my computer, with dirt beneath my fingernails, I wonder why I did this, why I ever agreed to let you tell me what to do.

I never thought I would ever do something as monstrous, as wicked as this.

That poor creature didn’t deserve to die, and I did it just to please you.

What else will I do to make you happy?

What else will I do before you finally take my eyes from me, as you’ve been promising?

You and I are better off without each other.

If we stay together, we’ll only hurt one another.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. Especially about a Sumatran short-eared rabbit. Have you ever seen one? It’s a type of rabbit only found in Indonesia. Considered very rare. Endangered, in fact. They had one at the zoo I used to go to when I was in college. I used to skip my French class and instead take a walk to the zoo - stroll through the gardens, look at the orangutans and the lemurs, and the sloths and the pandas.

But I always found myself drawn to a small glass case framed on the pathway leading to the anteater exhibit. A small glass case with a female Sumatran short-eared rabbit inside. She’d squat in her little cage, her tiny hands cupping the bits of tropical fruit they’d give her. Her fur – warm chestnut with dark brown stripes. She was about as big as your hand. Maybe a little bit bigger.

I found out she was pregnant.

And the zookeepers were taking bets when she’d finally deliver the litter.

So, I kept checking back every day – ignoring my French homework and instead sprinting to the zoo to see if the rabbit had her babies yet.

And finally, one day, when I was there, she was laying on her side and it started to happen. Squeezing out of her was this tiny, pink clump of tissue – glistening wet. She labored for probably twenty minutes before the little thing pushed itself out of her, its limbs shiny and rubbery. And as it lay there, twitching in the agony of what it feels like to first become a living thing, she pressed her snout against it and inhaled its scent.