The damage to the walls was considerable; fire, then water had taken its toll. It had started in one of the flats, according to the inspector’s report, where a man, of a certain age, had left a candle burning, then he’d fallen asleep. The smoke alarms had probably woken him, it continued, but the fire was too far gone, and he had choked to death on the smoke fumes before he could get out. The report went on to say that the curtains had gone up first, then the carpet, and the rest quickly followed. Everybody else in the tower block had filed out quietly, though terrified by the alarms and the smoke, then made their way down the stairs to the safe point outside. I had simply walked out with them, then away into the night, to continue my life. It hadn’t been remarked upon, officially or otherwise, that the old man’s wheelchair had made it out into the corridor, leaving him to die on the living room floor. No one had even suspected that it had been casually rolled away from him as he lay there crying and choking, begging for mercy. They say that no one is beyond redemption, but I contest this. Neither he (the old man), nor I will see the light of Heaven, or whatever passes for the place where the good ones go. It had taken me a long time to track him down, and by the time I had, he was too old to have offered any resistance to my allegations, or his execution. He knew what he had done, and I didn’t waste time talking to him about it. There were probably more like him out there, and some like me too. I wouldn’t care to share though, that would mean admitting what I had done, or still could do, to someone else, and that would be a risk. I didn’t feel the need to explain why I had done this, not to anyone. No matter how righteous I felt my cause was, my means were certainly not ‘good’, I was judge, jury and executioner. When the time comes for my accounting I will simply admit everything, and I wouldn’t change it, whatever threat of sanction or punishment lay before me. In the meantime, I am free to kill again.

Wild swimming. Camping. Hiking. Me. Him. Indian Summer. Joy in nature. Just us until suddenly it’s them too…a husk of hares all people shaped. Silent. Looming. Sentinels. Territorial. I think Mike is gone. His screams went on forever. I’m hung. Hooked to a tree. But there’s no pain. I think my back’s broken. Or is it shock? Vomiting usually makes you feel better, but all I can smell is blood. His. Mine. The retching won’t stop because they’re rendering his flesh in a cauldron and the sizzling and hot porky stench tries to wrench my bowels clean out of my mouth. I see their eyes through the rabbitty masks, cold, raptorial, glazed as iced donuts. I swear their road kill ears twitch, tuned in to me. Anticipating. Ravenous. They communicate with grunts and gestures as they lovingly crumble herbs onto what’s left of what laughed, cried, breathed. Lover…husband…father. The foetus within me is so still perhaps it’s departed, wisely deserting a vessel that no longer holds hope. I glance up a sky sulphur with storm clouds. We are due home tomorrow. Oh, God, how long? I’m cut down. Dragged across the earth. Doused with water. My limbs are folded, tucked, trussed. They stuff a gag of greenery into my mouth, bitter and aromatic. More shoved into other orifices, scratchy twigs, bunches of leaves, sprigs and pinches. I fit into the bain marie as snug as duck confit. On my back, legs tucked up behind, arms across my naked chest. It takes three of them to lift the cauldron, to pour hot human fat in a glistening arc of gold. Golden as the ring on my third finger. Til death do us part? I sense the heat but don’t feel it. At least not until the boiling water hits my face. I try to scream but my mouth is full of bouquet garni. I wonder how long I’ll take to digest. The thought makes me laugh. I’m being peered at as though I’m the mad one, a sentiment that makes me chortle all the lounder. One of the hare men tugs the bunch of herbs from my mouth, cocking his head like some inquisitive bunny. I remember something Mike always used to say when life seemed unfair or everything was going tits up. “It’s not the dog in the fight, Charlotte. It’s the fight in the dog.” I bare my teeth at my murderer then smile. ‘”I hope I give you the fucking shits!”

I called them The Bunnymen: monsters that were half human and half rabbit with dark, hollow eyes and long pointed hare ears, the hands and legs of a man but with clawed, furry rabbit feet. There were six of them, towering in height, wearing long crimson robes, and a leader, who stood out from the group by wearing all white and holding a long wooden staff. The first night I noticed them, they were by the treeline a quarter of a mile away, staring ominously at me through the dusky gloom. I sat on my back porch, frozen, not knowing what to do while they stood motionless, seemingly at a stalemate. After about an hour, when the sky had grown dark and I could barely make them out anymore, the monster raised his staff and they retreated. I breathed an unsteady sigh of relief but stayed out there a while longer just to make sure they were gone. With trepidation, I went inside and up to bed. When they didn’t return the next few nights I thought maybe it was nothing more than a bizarre occurrence and was happy and willing to leave it at that but then five days later, right before dusk, there they were again. This time they were much, much closer. The Bunnymen were standing in the barren brown field that covered the expanse between my house and the woods. I groaned upon seeing them, my gut clenching up in fear. Again they stared, never making a sound, and remained motionless until dark when they finally left. I stayed on the lookout nevertheless, smoking cigarettes long into the night. The nights were quiet for about a week, with no strange sightings, until a weird feeling told me to look out my window. The Bunnymen now stood at my backyard gate. I contemplated calling the police but who would believe a story like mine? “What do you want from me?” I yelled, finally, confronting my encroaching tormenters. The leader moved forward, and up close I could see it wasn’t a staff he held, but a crutch. He pointed to the lucky rabbit’s foot keychain on my belt loop. I looked down and unclipped it from my pants. “This? This is what you want?” I held it up as he nodded. I was bewildered until I looked closer. The Bunnyman was missing a foot.