It Came From Del Rio: Part One of the Bunnyhead Chronicles by Stephen Graham Jones Page A
Authors: Stephen Graham Jones
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lock with all his paperclips and tie pins anyway, and beat on the door with him, screamed for help.
At some point, though — probably when his skin started to crack and shift — he realized I was leading him on, just playing. It probably had something to do with the Polaroids I kept taking of him every twelve hours.
Whatever else you hear about me, don’t ever believe that I’m not a killer.
It’s what I came back for.
I don’t know how long I lived with the rabbits, as one of them. The seasons didn’t matter to me. Not that there’s much to go by in Piedras Negras. I ate roots and dirt and bugs, and usually threw it up an hour or two later. As far as I knew, there was nothing wrong with this.
If the warehouse had still been occupied, or close to a road, I would have been shot, I know. Just to figure out what I was. It was just the rabbits, though, and they accepted me more or less. I couldn’t fit down into their dens or warrens or whatever, but, in the yard anyway, they tolerated me. After a few days, they even quit watching me, just let me move among them on all fours. Sometimes even rested in my shadow.
I’m pretty sure that, back then, with the rabbits as my model, I moved as they did through the heat: with my feet together. It was ridiculous, I know.
It takes a long time to come back from the dead, though. You don’t just wake up and pick up where you left off. At least I didn’t.
Whenever I threw up, too, the rabbits would gather around me, wait to pick through the vomit for softened roots. It made me feel like part of something. This is an important part of living. It got to where I looked forward to my body rejecting what I’d put into it, would smile as I threw up, dry heave for more.
At dusk, for the few moments before complete darkness, sometimes the inside of the rabbits’ tall ears would catch a full glow of sorts. Like light was leaking out. I could have stayed there forever, I think.
In my calm moments, now, I sometimes go back there still, I mean. Sit myself against the side of that warehouse in my head and watch the rabbits stand against the sunset as if keeping watch, their ears glowing on.
Things were simple, then. I didn’t have a list of people to kill. But the world is what it is, too.
Some of the litters that were born under the wire, the babies would be all wrong — rabbits, but not. The other rabbits would move in then, and ravage the babies and the mother both. It’s just instinct. But sometimes, too, one of those babies would live for a few days. Pull itself under the wire and whimper with hunger, until I’d throw up on the wire, the strings of vomit going hand over hand down.
One of those times, one of the babies even started to grow, and grow, until I woke one morning to find its protective roll of wire nudged over. All that was left was a smudge of wet in the dirt. I tasted it, tried to remember the rabbit baby that was gone, forgot it for another few hours, I’m pretty sure.
Things were different now, though. For me. Instead of sitting against the warehouse, I sat against the fence opposite it. I was watching the open door. None of the rabbits ever went inside. Because I was a rabbit, I didn’t either.
Because I was a man, though, I watched that doorway, and sometimes looked through the fence, to the ferris wheel, creaking around in the wind.
Before we had to leave Texas, Tanya and me had smuggled Laurie up into one — there was a limit of two per gondola, or whatever they’re called — and my clearest memory of that now is the way Laurie was both smiling and clutching the leg of my jeans.
I like to think that, when I was a rabbit, I could still feel her hand, small and tiny and perfect. That, if my voice would have worked, I would have even said her name, maybe, and all the rabbits would have cupped their glowing ears to me, waiting for me to say it again.
Later I would learn that, for the first couple of years after I disappeared, Refugio asked to be
At some point, though — probably when his skin started to crack and shift — he realized I was leading him on, just playing. It probably had something to do with the Polaroids I kept taking of him every twelve hours.
Whatever else you hear about me, don’t ever believe that I’m not a killer.
It’s what I came back for.
I don’t know how long I lived with the rabbits, as one of them. The seasons didn’t matter to me. Not that there’s much to go by in Piedras Negras. I ate roots and dirt and bugs, and usually threw it up an hour or two later. As far as I knew, there was nothing wrong with this.
If the warehouse had still been occupied, or close to a road, I would have been shot, I know. Just to figure out what I was. It was just the rabbits, though, and they accepted me more or less. I couldn’t fit down into their dens or warrens or whatever, but, in the yard anyway, they tolerated me. After a few days, they even quit watching me, just let me move among them on all fours. Sometimes even rested in my shadow.
I’m pretty sure that, back then, with the rabbits as my model, I moved as they did through the heat: with my feet together. It was ridiculous, I know.
It takes a long time to come back from the dead, though. You don’t just wake up and pick up where you left off. At least I didn’t.
Whenever I threw up, too, the rabbits would gather around me, wait to pick through the vomit for softened roots. It made me feel like part of something. This is an important part of living. It got to where I looked forward to my body rejecting what I’d put into it, would smile as I threw up, dry heave for more.
At dusk, for the few moments before complete darkness, sometimes the inside of the rabbits’ tall ears would catch a full glow of sorts. Like light was leaking out. I could have stayed there forever, I think.
In my calm moments, now, I sometimes go back there still, I mean. Sit myself against the side of that warehouse in my head and watch the rabbits stand against the sunset as if keeping watch, their ears glowing on.
Things were simple, then. I didn’t have a list of people to kill. But the world is what it is, too.
Some of the litters that were born under the wire, the babies would be all wrong — rabbits, but not. The other rabbits would move in then, and ravage the babies and the mother both. It’s just instinct. But sometimes, too, one of those babies would live for a few days. Pull itself under the wire and whimper with hunger, until I’d throw up on the wire, the strings of vomit going hand over hand down.
One of those times, one of the babies even started to grow, and grow, until I woke one morning to find its protective roll of wire nudged over. All that was left was a smudge of wet in the dirt. I tasted it, tried to remember the rabbit baby that was gone, forgot it for another few hours, I’m pretty sure.
Things were different now, though. For me. Instead of sitting against the warehouse, I sat against the fence opposite it. I was watching the open door. None of the rabbits ever went inside. Because I was a rabbit, I didn’t either.
Because I was a man, though, I watched that doorway, and sometimes looked through the fence, to the ferris wheel, creaking around in the wind.
Before we had to leave Texas, Tanya and me had smuggled Laurie up into one — there was a limit of two per gondola, or whatever they’re called — and my clearest memory of that now is the way Laurie was both smiling and clutching the leg of my jeans.
I like to think that, when I was a rabbit, I could still feel her hand, small and tiny and perfect. That, if my voice would have worked, I would have even said her name, maybe, and all the rabbits would have cupped their glowing ears to me, waiting for me to say it again.
Later I would learn that, for the first couple of years after I disappeared, Refugio asked to be
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