Work Text:
Your brothers call your name from the garden’s edge, shouting with glee at something they want you to see. You run over, dandelion stems shoved into your socks and mud on your dress. Bill has in his hand a young rabbit, with grey fur like the horses you ride at sleepaway camp. Curled up in his palm, it huffs. You take it from him, lukewarm and twitching. You pet the coarse ridge of its nose.
“What are you doing, Dana?”
“I’m keeping it.”
Bill yanks your arm. “Give it back.”
“Ouch!”
Charlie doesn’t take your side, instead whining, “We’re only gonna play with it.”
Squinting at their smug faces, you know they mean worse. You flee, a tiny rabbit in your arms, a red welt on your bicep. You don’t want Missy to tell on you. You make a bed out of grass in a metal lunchbox, keep the bunny in the cellar so it can sleep.
Overnight, the rabbit dies. Missy finds you quietly weeping over rotten fur, milky eyes, the stench of death. You ask her to bring it back. Kneeling beside you, Missy covers the creature with both hands. There’s no ominous breeze, no clap of lightning. When she finishes, the rabbit leaps, alive — you laugh.
But, later, the bruise on your arm spreads to your elbow. Mom takes you to the doctor; you need a cast for the broken bone Bill swears wasn’t his fault.
A week passes. The rabbit dies. Your arm heals.
*
You shoot a garter snake. Cradling the writhing, bleeding thing, you try to fix it the way Missy did. You fail.
You go to medical school to learn how.
*
Your sister’s murdered. Mulder suggests you take time off, but instead you let work consume you, ignoring your mother when she calls.
On your apartment stoop is a lop-eared rabbit that scratches at the door and retreats into the grass. Once you’re indoors, its milky eyes stalk you through the window.
There’s another case, so you pack your bags. Another autopsy to finish.
Mulder chats up the sheriff over plates of pie; you change into your scrubs.
Everything goes smoothly, until you take your gloves off and accidentally brush against the body, and the person it once was wakes up screaming.
Your stomach wrenches, plummeting. You dig into your cuticles to feel the pinprick heat of blood, and you wait for the consequence.