Cursed Bunny

But by the time I sit at that armchair by the window, there will be no child or grandchild to listen to my story. And in this twisted, wretched life of mine, that single fact remains my sole consolation.

“When we make our cursed fetishes, it’s important that they’re pretty.”

Grandfather reappears in the armchair next to the window, turns on the bunny lamp, and begins to tell the same story he has told me scores of times before.

“Să vorbesc româneşte acum.”

“Bine, hai.”

“Cum te simţi azi?”

“Sunt bine. Mersi.”

She covered her face with her bloody hands and began to cry. Sobs at first, soon escalating into full-on wails. Whether they were tears of relief, sadness from losing the baby, or of something else entirely, she herself couldn’t tell.

“It is no sin to make and sell good spirits. But for the alleged crimes of not being connected to powerful people, for not having the capital to make such connections, an entire family was smashed to pieces and its remains scattered to the winds.”

“I mean, that’s life,” the older woman went on to say. “And life goes on. Think of the child in your belly. Live only for the child. It’s not easy raising a kid alone these days, but you’ve got to be strong and keep living your life! Children grow up so fast. Mark my words, today will seem like a distant memory soon enough …”

“Eh, that’s nothing. Just leave it alone. It’s not like it crawls out of there at night and lays eggs around the house.”

The inflammation and constipation never really went away.

“My body was created with the things you dumped down the toilet, like your fallen-out hair and feces and toilet paper you used to wipe your behind.”