The Suiciding Rabbit

Rabbits are tenacious animals. They live and they multiply; they thrive as wildfire does on a field of grass. They live a life running freely in the wild, running away from predators. Pet rabbits are the opposite. They don’t lack the above qualities, but they are different. They are cared for, locked up safely in a cage. The crisis of their life is not the visible predator on the field, but the irresistible master that confines them in the name of love. In the cage of love that they cannot run away from, they are tamed.

The rabbit had red eyes: red, empty eyes that looked directly into your soul, covered by the snow-white fur. I can hardly remember its name. It was nothing but a pet my brother bought along with 2 other rabbits. However, it was unlike its companions. When we released it from the cage, it helplessly ran all around the house. When it was out of the cage, I could truly see the energy in it, see a living creature, see the vitality of rabbits. The energy was so alive. It never let anyone pet it: it bit us when we try. It wasn’t a sweet pet. It was constantly dissatisfied, and we didn’t like it much.

On one of my brother’s countless attempts trying to pet the rabbit, he took it out of the cage. As usual, he failed and it began rushing throughout our house, but this time it was gone. Gone for good. We expected it to instinctively return to the cage. However, it went beyond our expectations: it left the cage and never came back. But where could it be? How could it escape? From the shut door? From our apartment on the 19th floor? From the environment that kept it most of its lifetime? …How would it survive?

A strange feeling filled my heart: it wasn’t anger or melancholy. I simply didn’t understand why it had left the cage. We had raised it and there was no way it could leave the house except for jumping out of the windows. If it didn’t leave the house, what would it feed on? Either way, it was determined for death. We found it a few weeks later, under my bed and behind a stack of old toys. It lay there so calmly as if it didn’t die because of a meaningless approach to liberation. Its existence was so insignificant, despite the disgusting smell of death. My assumptions were proved. It was dead for sure; no rabbit can survive weeks of thirst and hunger. The question of why remained unknown.

Its soulless red eyes haunted my dreams, and a sense of guilt grew in my heart. I started researching the survival instincts of rabbits, only to find that when hunted by powerful predators, rabbits hide instead of run. Were we the powerful predators that it risked its life to run away from? Why would any creature hide till death merely trying to avoid death? We were no predators. We fed it and kept it healthy. So why did it become so angry, so miserable and mean all of a sudden? Its struggles had no reason. I couldn’t help but reach the conclusion that it intended suicide. But why suicide? I realized that the self-destructive idea of suicide had occurred to me as well. Of course, they were not serious and sophisticated plans: only quixotic thoughts after failures. Why suicide? It was the only powerful impact my young self could perceive: to punish the strong by provoking remorse. The weakness of my body and the unformed abilities led me to fantasize about the power of my own death. It was the only way to prove myself absolutely right, to make people better than me regret. It was in an instant that I made my connection with the rabbit.

Suicide, Camus once stated, is a retreat of the absurd, not a true revolt. The absurdity of the pet rabbit’s life is its consciousness of its ability to run freely on fields as well as its consciousness of its inability to escape from the cage. Was the suicide a white flag made of its fur, or a bloody revolt that haunted us with its red eyes? The death of a rabbit; the death of a small animal; the death of the cute, furry creature that man finds lovely. Its lack of abilities leads to death being the only solution. Was it a revolt against us? 

Rabbits are tenacious animals. Why did it die?

I never found out.