Super Bunny

The killer was my friend, a buddy from across the street, named Andy. Andy was a psychotic kid my mother recalls me attempting to throttle at the tender age of three. No, I’m not exactly the most violent person but I suppose Andy brought out my more primal qualities. This particular homicide occurred at my house when Andy was visiting.
On that fateful day, Andy decided that it would be fun if we played with my family’s pet rabbits. I agreed, not realizing what desolation this bunny entertainment would cause. My brown rabbit wasn’t good enough, no, Andy went for the my sister’s albino which, incidentally, I was not allowed to touch. So, we played with the rabbit, and being boys, the rabbit’s inherent cuteness and our excitement over it’s delightful rodent antics soon wore off. Andy, his mind always amusing itself in the pub of inspiration, suddenly came up with this inebriated idea, “Hey, let’s play super bunny!”
Andy could ride a two-wheeler, had an impressive amount of he-man figures and he was in kindergarten; of course his idea was a good one. So, I agreed.
Of course, Andy hadn’t really thought to wait for my assent and had already grabbed the rabbit by his back legs and begun to spin it about. This particular rabbit was surprisingly aerodynamic and soon curiousity got the better of Andy and he started to wonder, like most criminally-minded five year olds would, if this bunny could fly on it’s own. The first flight was a mild success, with the rabbit spinning clumsily into the air and flying for several seconds only to be influenced by the insistent pull of gravity and plummeting back into Andy’s arms. Andy was pleased with the triumph of his first launch and swung the long white body between his legs and into the air once again. The rabbit went higher this time, performing a few more athletic gymnastics in the air this time before finding refuge in Andy’s crushing embrace once again.
I suppose I should’ve been hit by some moral urge about this time to tell Andy to stop playing “super bunny.” The thing was that I had started to believe in super bunny. Super albino rabbit had had two successful flights and if he was anything like the super man I knew, this bunny could deflect bullets off of his chest and leap over tall buildings and had more to worry about from kryptonite then being throne six feet above the ground by a five year old boy.
So in my naive belief I kept silent and the bunny began his third flight. Launched into the air the white ball of fur completed one, two, three rapid rotations and then started heading down. This time, however, Andy’s hands remained passively at his sides, waiting for the bunny to take its flight under its own locomotion. The rabbit, unaware of Andy’s plan, continued helplessly towards the ground. The rabbit was half-way throught its fourth rotation when it’s head struck the ground. There was a brutal squeek and a sickening crack as the rabbit’s neck broke. The body followed with a thud and the rabbit lay quite still and quite dead, or at least mostly so. I poked the rabbit and it remained inert. I touched it, prodded it but it did not respond. Andy looked at his handiwork in wide-eyed amazement, “Uh, I have to go now . . . bye John.”
I shrugged, smelling death on the creature but not realizing it. I left it where it slept and went inside, an accessory to the barbarous flying death of my sister’s favourite animal.