Bunny in Montreal

By Sarah-Maria Khoueiry

The sun rose behind a thin veil of clouds. He trudged between the trees and fallen kindling,

shovel in one hand, leaving behind footsteps quickly erased by the black back he grudgingly

dragged along in his other.

He had said that this was a bad idea. Repeatedly, for that matter. It didn’t matter that the weather was incredibly inconvenient—they could’ve waited until it was proper spring—or that the entire

ordeal seemed unnecessary—when has murder ever been the answer to minor problems?

Nevertheless, they had all voted and collectively decided this was the best possible solution to

the problem he was currently taking on a trip in the woods. The had voted and collectively

decided he should be the one to take care of it.

Yay democracy.

His luggage kept snagging on roots and pointy branches, and he sighed as he keeps stopping to

pull it away from the obstructions. This was taking a lot longer than he would’ve liked it to, and

the temperature was dropping fast. He went on, slowly and steadily until, once again, the bag got

stuck. Once again, he pulled at it, not bothered enough to carry it away from whatever obstacle it

now faced. It had worked the other ten times; this time, it won’t. He tugged again. And again.

And again, until, finally, miraculously, he felt the weight shift. Though, upon closer inspection, it

was because the bag had ripped. A few meters away from the clearing where he was supposed to

hide what they’d done. Great. I guess here will have to do, then.

Here was big enough, clear enough—except for that one godforsaken offshoot.

Whatever.

It didn’t matter.

It’s not like anyone will bother to look here. This will have to do. If any of them want to complain

they can come dig him up themselves.

He went to work. Digging the hole was grueling, what with the slush of soil and weeks-old

snow; worlds colliding in swirls of grayish brownish thickish liquid. He kept digging but the

water kept filling the well. He kept digging until the shovel hit something too solid to be dirt, too

hollow to be rock.

It was a box, a large one at that—the size of the grave he was digging, actually. He didn’t want

to guess what could be in a human-sized box lowered in the earth in the woods. He didn’t have

to. He didn’t have to open it and see for himself—he knew what he would find. He knew it as

sure as he knew the sun would rise tomorrow. It didn’t matter, though. No one would bother to

look here.

He lowered the second body into the ground. What was one more corpse in there? It was only

two strangers stuck with each other for the foreseeable future. He would’ve felt sorry if he didn’t

care more about getting this thing over with. He went on piling the snow slush back on top. He

also scattered some forest debris above it all for good measure. When he gets back, he should

look into making new friends.

Walking back to the cabin, the first snowflakes were beginning to fall. He sighed. He knew that

 this wasn’t the right weather to murder someone—the soil will be too cold now.

The snow packed up. Every hour, a little higher, and a lot thicker. He watched from the window,

willing the sun to stay put.