The Funny Bunny Keeps a Diary

The tension in the air is palpable.

The entire staff is there, some standing and others shifting uncomfortably in their seats. The body lies motionless on the floor, cold and pale. Death by hanging. The marking on his neck makes that clear enough.

The man’s daughter is in the corner, still sobbing, but more from shock than sorrow.

All eyes are trained on the stableboy now, who was last seen in an altercation with the deceased. Then he was alive, and now he is not; no doubt that raises a few eyebrows.

The boy gets down to one knee and scans the corpse of his former taskmaster, who seems to be staring back at him. Even dead he is despicable.

As the crying settles the collective whispering is increasing. The stableboy can sense it without even trying - everyone is now talking about him. He barely utters a word when the old cook fires the first shot.

“Y-You did this!”
“No”

“You never liked him!”
“I never liked anyone here”

“If I may be allowed to speak…”
And then suddenly, reverent silence. The crowd parts to reveal the source of interruption.

The young lord looks quite different out of his usual stark attire. In his blouson shirt and with hair loosely draped around his face, he projects none of the stateliness he is generally known for. Were it not for his delicate features he would be lost in this crowd.

“Let us put a stop to all this speculation. Old man, do you not see that our stablehand appears injurious and barring the matter of his death, that the corpse does not?”

The cook looks to the floor; the observation is astutely salient, and he is embarrassed by it.

“Also, had he not been muttering to himself strangely, about matters concerning repentance and Judgement before going missing today? Are the reports that have come to me untrue?”

Some of the houseworkers nod in agreement.

“That leaves us with the most important question. It was brought to my attention, and had greatly concerned me. I intended to address this more discreetly but the gravity of the accusations pitted against our dear friend here leaves me with little choice.”

The young master pitifully looks towards the dead man’s pubescent daughter. Letting out a reluctant sigh, he speaks gently, apologetically.

“Little Miss, has your father been forcefully partaking in your honour?”

The tears come bursting out accompanied by a hair-raising wail. The men gasp in horror, but the matrons and maids rush to the girl’s comfort, cooing at her and rubbing her back. The lord himself, kneels and cups her hands, squeezing them tightly. He manages a warm smile.

“There, there. I have spoken with the Lady regarding your plight. If you so choose, you may reside in this Household for as long as you wish, and  assist in her affairs. My mother is most benevolent and kind, and you will be treated well. Go now and rest, you have had a long day.”

Feebly she is slowly escorted by the washerwoman out of the room, as the men stare at their feet with equal parts awkwardness and sympathy. When she is gone the master speaks again.

“This monster lying before us had abandoned his sacred duty to protect his child and robbed her of her innocence. And today, realising the immense crime that he had committed, he chose to end of his life, even if that may never be payment enough. There is no knowing the circumstances that spurred this realisation in him, but that matters not anymore.  Now, give him at least a proper burial.”

The crowd leaves and the room begins to clear, but the chatter is still heard. In light of their discovery, that is to be expected. Yet the stablehand remains in his seat, eyebrows furrowed but otherwise he is completely still. He is lost in thought.

What did I do? It worked.

He ambles dizzily past the drunken crowds, tracing his steps through the gaslit streets, back to where he had been taken from.

Through his stupor, his surrounds do not quite resemble the place he had seen just this morning.

It is nightfall, and the city is now the domain of the prostitutes, playground to varmints and labyrinthian refuge to the downtrodden and brokenhearted.

Dried blood had encrusted all over boy’s cut lip, swollen right eye, and almost the entirety of his crown, and his shirt is tattered from the wrangling it had suffered. Amongst the masses of freaks and coquettish sluts, the boy draws stares like a king of vagrants.

“Rough night!? Tuppence for your comfort, yes!” cackles a pleasure-woman shrilly, like a banshee. The boy ignores her, and stumbles into a street corner.

He paces forward a some more, where he finds a little path; it leads him back to the servants’ quarters of his House. Almost immediately the atmosphere is wholly changed: tree-lined, austere, respectable.

“Where have you bee… Bless my soul, what did you get yourself into?” exclaims the rotund woman who spots him, visibly shocked and upset.

The boy is promptly placed into a wooden tub of hot water. It is not filled completely but the scent from the assorted salts and medicines permeates the room. The solution stings his wounds but the pain is no match for the trashing he had just endured.

The fat lady gently runs a terrycloth around the perforations and lesions on his skin, delicately cleaning it to prevent Infliction from setting in.

The boy is buck naked as she does this but he feels no shame, though he is almost a man now. The washerwoman is the closest person he has to a relative, and there is nothing she had not seen before. But she knows little of the boy and what lies inside the abyss of his heart, and asks even less.

“There is something you should know. Your master is dead.”

He watches wistfully as the contingent trots into the corner of the quiet, cobbled street. Soon it will be bustling with people and engined coaches, but at this moment it is just him and the increasingly distant clip-clopping of hooves.

The boy is lost in thought as a smile forms in his face, uncontrolled. He had not smiled in the longest while, for in that time he had not had a smidgeon of joy.

Snapping out of his delirium, the he turns and begins his way to the smithy, where he would toil for the next hours to earn his keep.

But the taskmaster is waiting for him there, livid with vengeful rage. Upon sight, the brute swings the club in his hand. It had been fashioned hastily; a wooden piece yanked from a post, some nails intact.

The boy easily evades the first blow. Years of hard labour had quite a profound impact on his agility. But the monster was mighty and well-versed in abuse, and with a precisely timed harumph, the stablehand is struck down with a gut-wrenching kick.

Soon enough he is lying helplessly in the back alley,   drenched in a pool his own blood. The air is foul - the combination of liquored vomit and piss and the metallic smoke from the refineries.

As he drifts in and out of consciousness, he recalls the encounter that he had had. It could very well have been a particularly lucid dream. He does not know for sure, but now it matters not.

What had she said? What had she said?

I must remember.

I remember!

The assailant stands there still, regaling his fine work of teaching the impertinent fool his deserved lesson. Pride restored, he spits at the gory mess and readies to leave, when suddenly he is grabbed by the ankles.

“Pay for your crimes! Pay… for… y…”

Nothing.

He hears a mocking guffaw, and then everything fades to black…

The boy returns to his quarters, feeling more than a little drained from his strange encounter. But deep within him lies also a curious satisfaction. He rests his head atop a lumpen pillow and drifts into sleep…

It is barely daybreak when he awakens to a start. A kick sends jolting pain into his ribs. Grabbing his side as he regains his senses, he looks up to find his taskmaster staring back at him, his eyes bloodshot with anger.

“For fuck’s sake, why is the horse not ready?! Do you think this a charity, stable boy? You’re better off sold to the whorehouse if you like sleeping this much!”

He readies himself for a second wallop. This time he is aiming for the crotch.

“Enough.”

The young man behind the door is no older than the stablehand. But dressed in his dark velvety coat, he cuts a commanding figure.

“You should do well to learn the value of compassion. Yours is not the way of our household.”

“Y-Yes..,of course,” replies the beastly tyrant. A defiantly ugly smile betrays his feigned humility.

As the princely figure inches towards the him, the grimacing boy is silently transfixed. Pale skin on a lanky frame, and piercing cold eyes; in his black ensemble he would be threatening if not for the kindness in his voice.

“Let me help you up, my friend. You do not mind being my friend, I hope?”

The boy finds himself red in the face, flushed from embarrassment and desire.

The boy returns to his quarters, feeling more than a little drained from his strange encounter. But deep within him lies also a curious satisfaction. He rests his head atop a lumpen pillow and drifts into sleep…

It is barely daybreak when he awakens to a start. A kick sends jolting pain into his ribs. Grabbing his side as he regains his senses, he looks up to find the horsekeeper staring back at him, his eyes bloodshot with anger.

“For fuck’s sake, why is the horse not ready?! Do you think this a charity house, stable boy? You’re better off sold to the whorehouse if you like sleeping this much!”

He readies himself for a second wallop. This time he is aiming for the crotch.

“Enough!”

The voice behind the door is gentle but clear and lucid. It booms not, unlike the bells of a tower. Rather, the tone is as comforting as the strumming of a harp.

“You should do well to learn the value of compassion. Yours is not the way of our House.”

It is a young man who speaks. His stately finery befits a princely status.

“Yes, of course,” replies the horsekeeper. A defiantly ugly smile betrays his feigned humility.

The stableboy stands transfixed as he studies the prince in intricate detail. Where his eyes are dark as ebony, the prince’s are light as hazel. A body that is lean and lithe as opposed to sinews hardened from the wrangling of stallions. And that face - kind and graceful, a thing of great beauty.

“Let me help you up, my friend. You do not mind being my friend, I hope”

The stablehand finds himself red in the face, flushed from embarrassment and desire.