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One time, when I was 16, I slit the throat of a baby rabbit. It had been caught by a cat and I tried to save it but it was paralyzed. We left it under a tree and I checked on it the next day. It was still alive, still paralyzed- suffering.
I was distraught at its suffering. I didn’t want it to suffer. My brother’s girlfriend at the time encouraged me to put it out of its suffering. She gave me a rather dull kitchen knife. I held that little rabbit in my hand for over an hour, sobbing as I apologized to it. It took so much for me to finally do it. The dull knife worsened the suffering. I had to try several times and all the while it squeaked in panic and pain at me. It finally stilled in my hand and I buried it. I went home and cried for hours and hours on end.
It really fucked me up, if I am being honest. Sometimes I get vivid intrusive memories of that day. The anguish I felt. The fear and pain I put that little life through. The blood on what I used to see as gentle hands.
I’m crying just writing this.
Over a decade later and I still feel those emotions, I still feel that self hatred, that
loss of innocence. I hope I go back to forgetting soon. It’s plagued my brain all day.
As messed up as it is- I sometimes find comfort in the idea that maybe I will die a painful death, and understand what I did.
Maybe I will die, gasping for air, afraid, and confused.
Maybe one day that little rabbit will have its justice and I’ll pay for my sin.
Maybe empathy can be found in suffering.
Maybe one day I’ll suffer as it suffered.