Page 5 of Run, Rabbit, Run

Chapter Three

The past always seemed to catch up with Bunny, whether she was holding it close to her chest like a security blanket, or at an arm’s length in desperation to make it go away.

Pain is funny in that eventually you begin to find familiarity in it, and with that new normal comes comfort. You become all too content with the drowning weight of sadness.

Her suffering felt all-consuming, the darkness of her past ever-looming.

While Bunny could feel the fierce pangs in her belly, she couldn’t bring herself to touch any of the food her captor had left. She knew it would taste like ash in her mouth. Instead, she plucked a water bottle from the basket and twisted the top off with shaking fingers.

Bunny’s dark green manicure was chipping. Not that it mattered much. Who did she have to impress? Certainly not the sociopath who had kidnapped her.

A vortex of dark thoughts spun in her pounding head regardless of the haze: hand-covered ears picking up the distant shouting of an angry man as he ripped a door open and slammed it closed. Not to leave the room, no. Just to hear the noise and feel catharsis in the violence of the act.

The physical conflicts had happened far more often than Bunny cared to remember. Half of the time she couldn’t, anyway. She had always been her father’s child, high on temper and low on self-control during her episodic anger.

Her mother was the opposite. That demure woman never stood a chance against the wrath Bunny’s father rained on his household whenever he lost his temper. But honestly, Bunny had a hard time finding sympathy. Her mother should have protected her as a child. She hadn’t.

With a start, Bunny realized she had been spiraling, deep in her thoughts. Lately, she had these thoughts more and more. Her therapist called them emotional flashbacks.

Even when she was doing nothing related to any of it. Even when she was trying to do anything but think about what life was like before she managed to escape and build something better for herself.

Maybe the social workers who got involved were right. Perhaps this situation was exactly what she should have expected from herself, what she deserved. Girls from broken homes made stupid mistakes, and those oversights landed them in places like this.

She had read the reports compiled by the people who had come to investigate the bruises left on her when her father lost control. Her purported fate had been repeated over and over by stiff professionals who were clear about their lack of faith in her future because of her past.

Bunny had always said she would never be a statistic… But at the end of the day, she knew everybody was a statistic, a sum of their demographics.

What the fuck is this and why does it have to happen to me? Was all she could think. Her head still felt like it was full of cotton, the haze continuing even now, hours later.

Bunny was only familiar with Ativan. She’d been given Benzos by her psychiatrist when the panic attacks began growing more intense. The other drug mentioned was foreign to her.

Bunny wanted to cry again, but tears were nowhere to be found. Separation from self was simply a way of life when you grew up with heavy trauma, and only bad ways out. Depersonalization became your daily reality. It felt like a waking nightmare. Or so she had thought. No, Bunny was quickly realizing that the true nightmare was the horrifying situation she had found herself thrust into.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. She had fought, clawed, and tore through the academic world to obtain a full-ride scholarship. She busted and hauled ass to get where she was.

And next? Graduate school, where she would gain a Masters in Archeology, to be followed by a Doctorate. She had bled for this life and had made things happen that she only halfway thought were possible.

And now, it was seemingly all for nothing.

Bunny took a few tentative sips of the water, grateful it was room temperature. She doubted her stomach could handle the shock of cold liquid. Setting aside the bottle, Bunny laid back down and fell into the hazy catatonia she had found so much comfort in during the worst of her younger years.

With any luck, it would get her through this hellish situation, too.

~

A hand rapping at the door startled Bunny. Is he seriously knocking? She thought, bewildered by the bizarre decision.

Her captor had taken her dignity. Why the hell would he give her the illusion of privacy?

In the next moment, a new person entered the room. He was dressed similarly to her captor; understated but expensive. Bunny wheeled backward, curling her knees to her chest and crossing her feet, arms wrapped over her breasts.

“Hello, Barbara. My name is Michael. I’m Demetrius’ assistant.” The man said pleasantly, as though he were meeting an acquaintance and not standing in front of a naked, kidnapped girl.

He had tousled brown hair, black glasses with a square frame, and a five-o’clock shadow. Bunny immediately had the feeling that he was one of those people who always seemed unkempt, regardless of the effort put into his appearance.

The word she was trying to conjure wasn’t sleazy, but sleazy was close enough.

Bunny gulped, cheeks heating at her exposure, before looking at him, pleading clear in her expression. “Please, Michael, you have to help me. Demetrius kidnapped me. This isn’t by choice, and I need your help. My friends and family will be incredibly worried. Please.” Her voice was hushed and pleading. She didn’t actually have many friends, and her family didn’t give a shit, but he didn’t have to know that.

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