Page 5 of Together We Rot

The rabbit shivers inside its cage. It’s plump and white like a mound of ice. Silent, save for the occasional twitch. I try not to think about what will happen to it later tonight after the service. It never gets easier to watch. The plunge of the blade spewing through its throat, the blood dripping from the branches. My father’s merciless with a knife. Men have offered sacrifices to the Lord since the dawn of time, Elwood. Who are we to go against His word? I dread the day my father passes the knife to me. I know I’ll hesitate. Man disobeyed God in the very beginning, son, and we are here to atone for that sin. You are here to atone.

For now, though, the rabbit will serve as a lesson.

“God gave you ribs for a reason, Elwood,” my father scolds quietly when I return. I don’t need a mirror to know my lower lip is trembling. “Don’t wear your heart so openly on your sleeve.” I hope while he’s at it, he can’t read the rest of the lies off my face. He’s always been good at picking my brain and locating the most treacherous parts.

If he figures out what I have planned for tonight, he might swap me for the rabbit. With one last pointed look in my direction, he lifts the caged creature onto the pulpit. “What beautiful white fur, unblemished as fresh snow. If we released it outside now, it would blend in easily.” He snaps his fingers for emphasis and the noise spooks it. “But that’s only because of its winter coat. If it hadn’t changed color with the seasons, we probably wouldn’t have it here with us. Some larger creature would’ve snapped it up as prey. Thanks to the Lord, of course, it’s got a working advantage. The world changes and we change with it.”

The church’s silence opens the door for the world outside. Wind howls through the pine and dead branches scrape the glass. Soon the moon will swallow the sun whole. What’s left of it spills like yolk over the trees and dies on the horizon.

“Church, you might think you have nothing in common with this rabbit. There are no predators to hide from, your hair doesn’t change through the year—well, ignoring the occasional gray hair.” That earns a slight chuckle from the crowd, enough to cut through any of the tension. He never jokes like that at home. He saves his smiles for an audience. “But I’m here to tell you today that’s simply not true. We are precisely like this rabbit in God’s eyes. When we encounter obstacles and opportunities in life, we cannot always face them as we are currently. We must ask the Lord to change us—whether we need to become stronger in the face of adversity or we need to summon the courage to follow the path laid out for us. I want transformation to be our theme this Christmas. Stasis is death.”

His words have talons, clutching and digging into my already-tender flesh. “If we do not change to adapt to God’s plans, we are no better than a brown hare in the snow, waiting for Satan or a hawk to swoop down and grab us.”

His lesson is accompanied by a harsh gust of snow. Like my father’s lesson, the storm is changing too. It’s becoming something impossible to outrun.

It will do more than bury the cars in the lot. It will smother our homes, our stores, the school...

School.

The word rolls into my mind unprompted, punching deep in my chest and leaving me winded. I try to shake it off, but I can’t. All of it, gone. The old, creaky desks, the ivy slithering up the alabaster sides. And, of course, I think of my only two friends.

Living things have always been so difficult. I remember all the times butterflies fluttered away from me, never to be seen again. The dead ones didn’t. They let me pin them in place, safe behind glass. Beautiful and mine. No work needed.

People aren’t like that. They’re more like flowers. If you don’t tend to them, they’ll shrivel and die and leave you with nothing in the end. When I leave, how long will it take for them to forget me?

“Think of it as a going-away party.” That’s what my friend Lucas said in the hall today, the start of my moral unraveling. I’d been resolved to my fate until those seven words slithered into my ears. “Please tell me you’ll go. It might be the last time we see you for years.”

I shot him down instantly. “Hell would have to freeze over before my parents agreed to that.” But he was just as fast. “Then don’t tell them.”

“That’s a...” I didn’t finish, and it turned out I didn’t need to. My face gave me away.

Lucas filled in the gaps: “Sin, yeah, we know the drill. C’mon, live a little before you go away, Elwood. You really want to go your whole life without ever having fun? Give yourself one night.”

“One night,” I’d parroted.

“That’s all we’re asking for, buddy. You can pray about it after. You’ll be there and back before anyone notices. What do you say?”

I know what the wind says now. It screams beyond the stained glass. Sinner, sinner, sinner.

I shouldn’t have entertained Lucas’s plan or told him that I’d go if he parked the car far into the trees. One last taste of the outside world—that’s how I’d rationalized it to myself. Now I’m wondering if I should’ve changed like the hare. If clinging to the past really will be the death of me after all.

“A prayer for Elwood’s big day,” my father finishes, and his palms lift skyward. “That he may continue to change as God commands him to.”

The church bows their heads on cue. Their eyes might be closed, but mine are locked on the rabbit’s. Its eyes are glossy, black, and unyielding.

“We bring Elwood before you, O Lord, as a testament of our eternal devotion. We ask for his strength and for his transformation. Let him reach manhood in accordance with your word and inherit the heritage he was born to receive. For with life there is death, but with sacrifice, there is eternity.” My father’s eyes reopen as he calls to the church. “We are seeds in the wind.”

That always marks the end of our prayer, a final tribute to the forest around us before we begin the sacrament. Every seed planted in this forest is blessed. Our trees stand like saints, our livelihood, our Eden. We whisper our thanks to them when we drive past, when we link hands for dinner, when we gather in church. Father worships each trunk before he cleaves his axe through it.

“And we shall grow in His image,” the church returns dutifully, and the sound builds with every voice.

“Amen.”

My stomach burns from the sins I’ve yet to commit.

CHAPTER THREE

WIL

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