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Just Over the Horizon
"Angel Bunny?" He hears the back door rattle and watches it swing open. The first rays of dawn scatter from its little window across his eyes and make him squint. "Breakfast time!"
No. Just hop away. It'd be the best thing for her. He knows that. It'd be the best thing for him. It'd be the best thing for everypony.
"Angel?" She sticks her head out, and her nose wrinkles with that darling smile. "Are you being a naughty bunny? Are we going to have that kind of day today?"
Don't look at her, at that smooth yellow hide, that pink mane soft as dandelion down! Look past her! East to the rising sun! To the big wide world! To the life waiting just over the horizon!
"Angel?" The word wavers a little this time. She takes a step out the back door, but she'll never look up into the branches of the oak beside the cottage. He knows that. Rabbits don't climb trees, after all.
They do have longings, though, rabbits do, longings they can seldom capture in thoughts or images and certainly can't express. And that makes them surly and cross even to those who don't deserve it, those who deserve nothing but the finest, gentlest, sweetest—
"Angel?" She's completely outside now, the sunlight dancing over her and plumbing the depths of those wide turquoise eyes.
Don't look at her! Dig into the bark! Make an anchor against her rising tide, slow and relentless and cool and refreshing—
Stifling! Unnatural! An iron chain attached to jaws of steel, jagged, sharp, and clamped so tightly, the only possible solution is to gnaw that leg off! Throw it away, throw it all away! The soul stagnates without freedom's breeze stirring the dust, scouring the rust, chipping at the crust! The horizon beckons, and its call—
"Angel!" Her urgency as always smacks his ears and sparks insidious memories: a damp washcloth draped over his fever-wracked brow; special trips into town to satisfy his most whimsical cravings; gifts both perfect and wildly inappropriate presented with her usual innate warmth and love.
And his response? Kicks to her head, to her hoofs, to her heart...
How can he stay? How can he continue being his own creature if she wants him to be hers? How can anything be right if he's near her or she's near him?
"Angel!" Birds flock around her now, most of them looking for breakfast but some also chirpily asking what the hubbub's about. "Angel Bunny! Have any of you seen him? I've been calling and calling, but he hasn't come in yet!"
Wanting so much not to look at her, wanting so much not to care, wanting so much for her not to look and not to care, he loosens his claws, lets himself fall, air rushing through his whiskers, and closes his eyes to the horizon being swallowed by the peonies blooming in her garden.
"Angel!" With the air suddenly swirling, familiar hooves catch him and gather him to a warm and trembling chest. "What in Equestria were you doing up there, silly? Bunnies don't climb trees!"
He clings to her, face buried in her delicate clover honey scent. The kicking will come later. He knows that. His little paws will flail against her overwhelming kindliness, and the weight of her expectations will bludgeon him into submission.
And tomorrow? Maybe he'll find the strength to heed the horizon's call. Maybe he'll finally be able to give her the only gift he has to give: the joyous misery of true freedom.
Yes. Maybe tomorrow.
No. Just hop away. It'd be the best thing for her. He knows that. It'd be the best thing for him. It'd be the best thing for everypony.
"Angel?" She sticks her head out, and her nose wrinkles with that darling smile. "Are you being a naughty bunny? Are we going to have that kind of day today?"
Don't look at her, at that smooth yellow hide, that pink mane soft as dandelion down! Look past her! East to the rising sun! To the big wide world! To the life waiting just over the horizon!
"Angel?" The word wavers a little this time. She takes a step out the back door, but she'll never look up into the branches of the oak beside the cottage. He knows that. Rabbits don't climb trees, after all.
They do have longings, though, rabbits do, longings they can seldom capture in thoughts or images and certainly can't express. And that makes them surly and cross even to those who don't deserve it, those who deserve nothing but the finest, gentlest, sweetest—
"Angel?" She's completely outside now, the sunlight dancing over her and plumbing the depths of those wide turquoise eyes.
Don't look at her! Dig into the bark! Make an anchor against her rising tide, slow and relentless and cool and refreshing—
Stifling! Unnatural! An iron chain attached to jaws of steel, jagged, sharp, and clamped so tightly, the only possible solution is to gnaw that leg off! Throw it away, throw it all away! The soul stagnates without freedom's breeze stirring the dust, scouring the rust, chipping at the crust! The horizon beckons, and its call—
"Angel!" Her urgency as always smacks his ears and sparks insidious memories: a damp washcloth draped over his fever-wracked brow; special trips into town to satisfy his most whimsical cravings; gifts both perfect and wildly inappropriate presented with her usual innate warmth and love.
And his response? Kicks to her head, to her hoofs, to her heart...
How can he stay? How can he continue being his own creature if she wants him to be hers? How can anything be right if he's near her or she's near him?
"Angel!" Birds flock around her now, most of them looking for breakfast but some also chirpily asking what the hubbub's about. "Angel Bunny! Have any of you seen him? I've been calling and calling, but he hasn't come in yet!"
Wanting so much not to look at her, wanting so much not to care, wanting so much for her not to look and not to care, he loosens his claws, lets himself fall, air rushing through his whiskers, and closes his eyes to the horizon being swallowed by the peonies blooming in her garden.
"Angel!" With the air suddenly swirling, familiar hooves catch him and gather him to a warm and trembling chest. "What in Equestria were you doing up there, silly? Bunnies don't climb trees!"
He clings to her, face buried in her delicate clover honey scent. The kicking will come later. He knows that. His little paws will flail against her overwhelming kindliness, and the weight of her expectations will bludgeon him into submission.
And tomorrow? Maybe he'll find the strength to heed the horizon's call. Maybe he'll finally be able to give her the only gift he has to give: the joyous misery of true freedom.
Yes. Maybe tomorrow.