Hare

It is late, and I cannot sleep. My bedroom is too muggy for sleep. All night I have been kicking off my covers. My mother said it might rain, and that I mustn't open my window. It is August of a hot summer, though, and I have been baked beyond concern. I get up out of bed, covered in a film of sweat, and go to my window. I throw it open and feel the sweet coolness of night, my face lit by the half moon above. Beneath my window is a roughly cut wooden deck, where there was none before. Excited to have this addition to my life, I climb through the window to explore.

Beneath my feet I find an abundance of would-be slivers, some as long as toothpicks. Somehow they do not bother me, though. I stomp on them and feel them driven up into the soles of my feet. Some feel as if they come all the way up into my leg. I choose not to feel any pain; no pain is involved.

Over to the edge of the deck. I look down. There is a hare on the ground below. It seems small at first, an ordinary rabbit. I can hear it nibbling at a patch of clover. It lazily hops to another patch, as baked by summer as I, as relieved by the coolness of a coming storm. As I watch, the railing upon which I lean my forehead suddenly gives a little, and I pull away from it. It is not sturdy enough, not even for a child as slight as I. Still I watch the hare. It is growing, down there before my eyes, the size of a raccoon now.

I climb back in through the window and pad quietly to my parents' bedroom. The door stands open. I walk to my mother's side of the bed. I hear the slivers in my feet snapping as they snag in the shag carpet.

"Mother," I whisper, gently shaking her arm. "Mother, there's a hare outside my window."

"Mm?"

"There's a hare outside my window. Come see. I think it's growing."

I tug at my mother's sleeve. She rubs her eyes and swings out of bed. Soon she is entering my room, shuffling along in her robe and slippers. "Didn't I tell you to keep your window closed tonight?" She finds herself watching me climb out the window.

"What on Earth are you doing?" Suddenly she seems very awake. I feel her grasping at my ankles. "Look at your feet!" she gasps. "How did you get all these slivers?

I squirm and wiggle out of her grasp, landing on my hands. A great sliver, like the blade of a dagger, punctures my left hand. I pull slowly off of it. A purplish red fluid leaks from the wound. I taste it. Grape juice, as sweet as the night.

I walk to the edge of the deck, the pain and surprise of my mother's helpless gaze following me from the window. At the edge, I look over. The hare has grown a great deal, standing over six feet tall.

"Come see, mother." I turn to see her in my window. She is scowling after me. "Come see. It won't hurt. Look." I show her my hand. "It's grape juice."

"I don't know why I'm doing this," she says, endeavoring to get through the window. "Could you give me a hand?" she asks. I go to her, and help her through. Her eyes are a mix of sleep and delight. Once she is out, I lead her across my deck.

"Look."

My mother's eyes grow large at the sight of the hare. It has not only grown, but has become white. She reaches out over the railing.

"No Mom! It'll bite."

The hare lunges out with its buck teeth. I try to pull my mother away, but to no avail. She is intent on touching the hare's soft white fur. Its eyes are red now, ablaze with viciousness. Its ears are laid back, and its lips pulled away in a snarl. "Mom!" I scream. "It's going to bite you!"

Afraid for myself, I back away from the railing, back against the house. The hare has grown so tall that it can reach the floor of the deck. "Oh," purrs my mother, "I'll bet you're so soft." She leans out, stretching to reach the fur. The deck railing gives way, and my mother falls. A look of pale terror is the last I see of her. The entire decks crumbles away before me, save for the one narrow board on which I stand. The boards collapse into a pile beneath me. The hare has snatched my mother by the back of her neck. Its body seems malformed now, twisted and gaunt. With my mother dragging limp beside it, the hare lopes away across the moonlit back yard, away toward the tree line.