Marvin

I grew up next to one of those families. You know, the kind of scary ones that, even though you don�t have any proof, you�re pretty sure there's a whole mess of skeletons in the septic tank? It was just a mother and her son� the two of them, creepy as creepy is. She was young looking with long Morticia Adams hair, but she never smiled, rarely spoke, and almost never left the house. She didn�t work and didn�t have a car in a town without public transportation. She spent the majority of her days sitting in the rocking chair by the window overlooking the front yard, bathed in the yellow glow of her lamp without the shade, the naked lightbulb shedding too much light on her already sallow face. She glared out the window and frightened the neighborhood children away � and most of the adults, too.

He son was a few years younger than me, and was the type of kid that would burn bugs with a magnifying glass and swear because their screams were too faint to hear as they exploded into a ball of smoke. His name was Timmy, although given his dress and affinity for whips, I�m sure he�d have preferred Indiana Jones. When he wasn�t scorching bugs, he was making whips out of found sticks and lengths of string to lash at imaginary puppies and pretend starving children. Such was his personality.

Despite his oddities, Timmy and I would occasionally be friendly to one another, engaging in a snow ball fight until his mother forbid him from playing in the snow� in Colorado� because it was messy. Or we�d play cops and robbers with our squirt guns in the summer, until my father forbid me from playing with guns� even those that shoot water� because you shouldn�t point guns at people� ever.

Even though we had nothing in common and generally disliked each other, the boredom of childhood drove us to occasionally take fleeting stabs at a friendship, but our parents seemed dead set against the idea.

Timmy enjoyed coming over to my house when we were kids because visiting my house was as like going to a zoo. We always had half a dozen cats, 2 or 3 dogs, dozens of fish and birds, hamsters, guinea pigs, rabbits� if it had 4 legs and was furry, we had it. It was a great place for kids, lots of cute animals to play with, but each untamed enough with sharp teeth or claws to make the experience dangerous enough to hold the average 12-year-old�s attention.

One day, Timmy was over and I�d lost track of him. He�d been wandering around the house, playing with various animals and whatnot, and he�d slipped out of my sight. No matter where I looked, I couldn�t find him, and I thought, �Well, shit. Now I�ve got Indiana Jones hidden in my house with an entire herd of domestic animals to torture.� I thought it was awfully rude to come over to a neighbor�s house, not even a real friend, and just help yourself to whatever pets you desired, and I was just starting to get really pissed when I found him in the backyard. He was playing with Marvin, my big black bunny. I stared out the back door with hatred for Timmy, as I watched him playing with my bunny, without permission, no less, but I didn�t go out and yell at him. I was sure he�d do something that I could catch him at that would justify my anger and allow me to really go out there and let him have it.

He was apparently in the mood to run, and he wanted to chase Marvin. When Marvin would hop a few feet, Timmy would race to catch up to him and stand behind him, waiting for him to start hopping again. Marvin had had enough and decided to just sit there, until Timmy pulled back his foot and kicked him in the back as hard as he could. The rabbit jumped awkwardly for a few feet, and collapsed with his nose in the thick grass. I ran out the door and screamed at Timmy and told him to go home. How dare he hurt one of my animals like that.

When I went to Marvin to see how hurt he was, he wasn�t moving. He was breathing hard and shallow, and I picked him up and held him in my arms like a baby, trying to figure out what was wrong. Timmy�s kick had broken his back. His body shook in my arms as he breathed, in out in out in out inoutinoutinout, faster and faster. His eyes wouldn�t blink and his head just laid back against the nook in my elbow, but didn�t move. I sat in the grass holding him for twenty minutes, not knowing what to do for him, or what to say to him. I told him I was sorry for not taking care of him and for not protecting him. I�m sorry I didn�t go outside and yell at Timmy before he kicked you. I�m sorry I didn�t stop it. He occupied my arms and I couldn�t wipe the tears away from my face, so I let them fall onto his dark brown fur, hoping that he felt them and knew they were for him.

After twenty minutes, Marvin tensed in my arms and screamed. I have never heard a sound like this come out of anything, alive or dead. It shook to the very center of my soul. I felt my face assume a position of shock and horror, my mouth moving wordlessly in search of something, anything, but I just sat there and held him as he screamed and kicked in my arms for several seconds. Then he was quiet, stiff, and I laid him back in the grass.

I went inside the house and met my mother in the kitchen. She saw my face, and even though she didn�t know what had happened, she reflexively grabbed me and held me tight in her arms as I sobbed into her breast. I was shaking from the sound of the rabbit�s dying scream still in my head, and I struggled to get out of her embrace. I wanted to concentrate on the scream, to remember its significance, but she held me tighter still until I had no choice but to let the scream fade away into the sound of my mother breathing and her soft humming as she comforted me.