Unprojected Images

Unprojected Images

A Collection of Stories

by Charles Rocha

Copyright 2017 Charles Rocha

Published by Charles Rocha at Smashwords

ISBN 9780463936054 (epub edition)

Cover image: Edvard Munch – Separation, 1896

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Flowers for Anne Boleyn

Dust

This Moment So Sweet

The Adventures of Dan & Lena

Fever Dream

Charlie and the Cat

The Masterpiece

The End of Dreams

Dogtown

Secrets of the Ancient Egyptians

Urbania

Let X=X

The Sum of All Things

Studio Thirty-Three (in 333 words)

About the Author

Other Books by this Author

Flowers for Anne Boleyn

A thin dark cloud passed in front of the full moon like a knife slicing a hard-boiled egg. Annie put down her book, slipped out of bed, and went to the bathroom mirror. She pulled her long, blond hair over her shoulders and gazed at her slender white neck as though noticing it for the first time. Intense blue eyes, ringed from lack of sleep, watched her movement through the glass. Her eyes were still the same shade of blue, but something behind them had changed.

She opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out a razor her boyfriend Michael sometimes used when he stayed over. Steeling her nerves, she moved her finger along the blade, pressing hard, until she felt a sting. She dropped the razor. Blood oozed down her finger, over the palm of her hand, and dripped into the white porcelain sink. Slowly, sensuously, she drew a red horizontal line across her neck.

As she drove to work the next morning, her mind was in such other places that she passed the corner convenience store where she usually picked up her morning latte. She arrived about ten minutes earlier than usual. The office had its usual Monday morning pall. As she moved to her cubicle in the documentation department, she noticed people sitting quietly at their desks, checking their email, or staring into space. The yellow sticky note she left on her computer monitor on Friday reminded her that she was to report to her supervisor for her yearly performance review.

Becca was one of the token lesbians the company hired when they came under investigation by the Department of Labor for discriminatory hiring practices. She had a square, mannish figure, huge breasts, and short butch-cut hair. Despite the conservative upper management’s initial reservations about Becca, she meshed well with them and eventually melded herself into the monolithic force in the company known as management, which meant that she was no friend of the employees.

Your performance has been exemplary, Annie, Becca said at the conclusion of the review. Unfortunately, you won’t be receiving an increase in your salary.

Why not?

The company isn’t giving out raises this year.

I got a superior performance review last year, too, and didn’t receive a pay raise. And the year before that, I got a two percent increase.

Becca raised an eyebrow. Are you complaining?

I guess not, Annie replied, not liking Becca’s imperious tone.

You should consider yourself lucky to have a job. There’re lots of unemployed technical writers out there who would be happy to do your work at half your pay. Becca slid the review form to Annie’s side of the table. Sign here so the Human Resources Department knows you received your review. Keep up the good work!

The 9:30 break was just starting when she got back to her cubicle. For the next fifteen minutes, the office would be alive. Half of the employees would stand in circles just outside the back door, smoking and talking about their dogs and trucks. The rest would wander the office in search of social contact.

How did your review go? Darryl, her coworker from the programming department, asked.

I didn’t get a raise.

That’s not fair, Annie. You’re so good at what you do.

Becca said there’s a wage freeze, but she didn’t say why.

Darryl looked both ways up the aisle of cubicles before he spoke in a hushed tone. I’ll tell you why—it’s because this company’s going down the tubes. They don’t want us to know that. He slapped the cubicle wall. Damn! My review is next week! I bet I’m not going to get a raise, either.

Probably not, she said, gazing into her coffee, the cheap, nasty-tasting stuff the company bought for its employees.

Hey, Annie, there are other companies besides Mannon. Don’t let them feed you that crap about there’s no work out there. They tell everyone that.

That’s not what’s bothering me this morning.

Short weekend?

She raised her head to look at him. Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be beheaded?

He laughed. What?

I was reading a book last night. It was about Henry the VIII and the executions of his wives.

Wasn’t one of them Anne Boleyn?

Yes. Darryl. These women were so brave when they went to their deaths! They were noble until the very end. Katherine Howard, Henry’s wife, was so brave! She had the executioner’s block moved into her cell before her execution. Those who attended her said that she practiced approaching, kneeling and laying her head on it, and then stayed by it for a long time, praying. She wanted to die like a Lady. Annie wiped her eyes. They were such remarkable women.

No need to get worked up over it. That all happened a long time ago.

Just think of what might have gone through their minds on their way to the chopping block, knowing that in a few moments, their heads would be severed from their bodies.

I haven’t the foggiest.

She ran her hand over the nape of her neck. I wonder what it felt like. She looked up at Darryl. Do you think they felt their heads fall into the basket?

Now, you’re getting morbid. By the way, have you noticed how dusty it is in here?

The smokers began filing in from the back door.

Looks like break’s over. Drink some more coffee, Annie. You’re in a bad way this morning.

At lunch, Annie bought a sandwich from the catering truck instead of going out as she normally did. She spent her hour searching the Internet for information on beheadings. She found that beheading was the form of execution reserved for nobles, while the commoners were usually hung or drawn and quartered. Most of the nobility were given the honor of the sword rather than the ax, for the wound of the sword was most like what would be given in the heat of battle.

When she got home that evening, Michael was waiting for her. He had let himself in and made himself at home in front of her television. He sat reclined on the sofa, feet on the cocktail table, beer in one hand, and remote in the other. She was disappointed to see him, as she had planned to go to the library to check out some books on executions.

He got up from the couch and kissed her. She didn’t feel like being kissed, but she let him kiss her anyway.

That’s not your usual kiss, he said, nuzzling her.

It’s been a long day.

She slipped out of his embrace. She went into the living room and threw her jacket on the sofa. He followed her into the kitchen where she poured herself a glass of ice water from a filtered carafe in the refrigerator.

What’s that bandage on your finger?

I cut myself.

How?

A broken razor.

Ouch.

He watched her drink the ice water. I’m really sorry I didn’t call you over the weekend, he said. I got called in on Saturday, and it was such a mess. I just wasn’t good company.

That’s all right. I was busy.

She finished the glass of water and began rinsing the dishes in the sink and loading them into the dishwasher. He leaned against the counter watching her.

Is something bothering you? he asked.

No, I’m fine. Why do you ask?

I don’t know. It just seems like you’re being distant.

I’m not being distant.

Are you angry with me about anything?

Do I look angry?

I’m not sure. That’s why I’m asking you.

If I were angry, I’d tell you. You know that.

Well, I’m just checking. He sidled closer to her. I was thinking of staying over tonight, since we haven’t seen each other since last Wednesday. What do you say?

You can stay if you want.

He ran his hand over her buttocks.

I’m not in the mood, though, she said.

I bet I can put you in the mood.

She shut off the water and dried off her hands on a dishtowel. He followed her out of the kitchen and to the bedroom. He stood at the doorway as she changed out of her work clothes.

Are you sure you’re not mad at me or something? he pressed.

Michael, everything’s fine, she said, kicking off her heels. Stop asking me. All right? I’m just a little tired.

Up late reading again, huh? he asked, referring to the books stacked on the nightstand. He picked up one with a fancy bookmark poking out and thumbed through it. The English Renaissance. Wow, he said, weighing the thick volume. Heavy reading. Nothing like the fantasy stuff you normally read.

I got that one over Christmas. I read a lot of English literature when I was in college. Now I’m reading about the historical stuff that was going on at the time. I think it’s fascinating how the literature and history are woven together, one being the product of the other, and vice versa. She entered the bathroom and closed the door.

How did your review go today?

Her voice came muffled from behind the door. I got a good review, but I didn’t get a raise.

I’m sorry. The bastards. He put the book back down on the nightstand. What do you say we go out to dinner tonight?

Where do you want to go?

There’s this restaurant I’ve wanted to take you to. I’ve got a two-for-one coupon.

I have plans for the evening.

Like what?

I want to go to the library.

Why? You’ve got enough books here.

She flushed the toilet.

He continued. Look, Annie, I can tell you’re not yourself today. Let me take you out to a restaurant. It’s Italian—and I’ll buy!

Italian? Oh, you’re not playing fair. She opened the door and peeked out. All right.

Michael was a good fit for Annie. They’d met four years ago when Annie temped at the engineering firm where he worked, just before she was hired at Mannon. He was into jogging; she was into mountain biking. They’d encountered each other several times at the local arboretum. In time, a relationship blossomed.

Michael tended to run cooler than Annie did in most areas of their lives. His pragmatism and steadfastness acted as a healthy counterpoise to her emotional nature. While he could nonchalantly discuss the gory details of some horrible car accident he’d seen on the freeway on the way home, Annie could be moved to tears over something disturbing she saw on the 11 o’clock news. Of the two, she was more artistic; he was more technical. She preferred the avant-garde atmosphere of coffeehouses; he preferred sports bars. They had considered moving in together, but since both of them were introverted and protective of their personal spaces, they made do by staying over at each other’s apartments occasionally.

Annie’s previous boyfriend, Tony, was a gynecologist she’d met through her brother, Ben, who worked at a medical lab. She had first been attracted to Tony because he enjoyed intellectual conversation, as she did. They would stay up late, sipping fine wine, discussing esoteric topics such as postmodernist theory, 1920s French Surrealism, and the films of Luis Buñuel. They listened to the same music and often drove to ritzy, upscale piano bars in his precious late model, black Corvette, which he sometimes let her drive.

Most of the time, however, their relationship was fraught with turbulence. Annie’s temperamental nature caused friction between them, and she would bristle at his pithy, sexist attacks that came with little provocation. She called him arrogant; he called her moody. Their sex life did not wholly satisfy her. When he reached inside her during foreplay, he did things that felt odd. At times, she wasn’t sure whether he was trying to pleasure her or give her a pelvic exam. But she was an accommodating girlfriend; she allowed him to use his speculum on her whenever he asked. The childish delight he took from looking inside of her amused her. Indeed, she sometimes felt like they were children playing a game of doctor. One day, however, he nearly pushed her beyond her limit when she came by his office to take him to lunch, and he instead pulled her into one of his examination rooms and locked the door.

Slide a little closer to the edge of the table, Annie—yes, that’s it. Ah! I’ve been needing you all morning!

Their relationship ended abruptly when she paid a surprise visit to his office after he began working late performing emergency surgeries. The evening she came to visit him, she arrived just in time to see an attractive, wide-hipped Hispanic woman wearing a red mini-skirt leaving his darkened office. Annie was waiting by his door when he left the office five minutes later.

Good work, doctor. Looks like she’s going to live.

Annie? What are you doing here? I thought we were going to meet at your place.

He at least had the decency to be honest with her when she confronted him, but her pride smarted, and she broke up with him that evening. Vexed when he failed to call her to reconcile as she’d thought he would, Annie brought a camera to her new gynecologist and had him take a photo of her cervix, shiny and pink, which she mailed to Tony with a sticky note that said, You’ll never have it this close again. When Tony received the photo, he promptly called her to beg for forgiveness. She told him to go to hell.

Initially, Annie missed Tony terribly, but after a period of introspection, she realized how damaging the relationship had been to her self-esteem. She also concluded that Tony probably hated women on some level. Her mother never understood any of this, and she needled Annie about the break up for months afterward.

No, Mother, I’m never getting back together with him.

Why not?

I already told you: because we argued all the time, and he was cheating on me.

But doctors have morals, otherwise they wouldn’t be doctors. Are you sure you gave him the benefit of the doubt?

Michael was as good for Annie as Tony was bad. She could count on him to be kind and considerate. Although she knew better, she sometimes became bored with Michael and missed Tony. Sometimes, she wished Michael would do something naughty or lewd, like show up at her place with a whip or a speculum, anything to keep things interesting.

Annie observed that their relationship had ebb and flow, a predictable cycle like seasons. Some weeks they’d be very close, and they’d spend four or five nights together in a row. Other weeks, they would scarcely call each other. Their autumns began when they quarreled after spending too much time together, and their springs commenced when they began missing each other.

Annie sensed that it was time for her relationship with Michael to thaw after a prolonged winter. But tonight, her thoughts were in faraway places and times, and she shared few words with him on the drive to the Italian restaurant. After dinner had been ordered, they sat at their table by the front window, watching the cars drive past.

How did the rest of your day go besides the interview? Michael asked, trying to drum up some conversation.

What?

How did your day go?

Oh, it was uneventful.

He gave her a perplexed look. What’s wrong with you, Annie? You haven’t said ten words to me since we left your apartment.

I’m just lost in thought.

A wave of emotion washed over her. She raised the folded table napkin to her eyes. Michael put his arm around her back and stroked her tenderly.

I’m sorry I hurt you, he said.

It has nothing to do with you.

Is it that time of the month?

She shook her head, feeling slightly vexed that he would ask that.

What’s up, then?

She shook her head. I don’t want to tell you.

Why not?

Because you’ll think I’m weird.

What are you talking about?

She didn’t reply.

Annie?

I don’t think I should tell you.

Is it about us?

No.

That’s a relief. Is it about your job?

No.

You know you can always tell me. You know that.

She lowered her napkin to her lap, about to test his capabilities of abstraction, when the waiter came by and dropped off a basket of sliced bread and a miniature ceramic cup of garlic butter. They waited patiently as the server uncorked their bottle of burgundy and poured each of them a glass. They continued their conversation without touching their glasses after she left.

So go ahead. Tell me what’s on your mind.

I want to be like Anne Boleyn.

Wasn’t she one of the wives of Henry the VIII?

"Yes, and so was Katherine Howard.

He had them executed, didn’t he?

Yes.

What do you see in these women?

She looked into his eyes. Their dignity. I think I’d like to be beheaded as they were, she said.

"You want what? Say that again."

I think I want my head chopped off.

Are you kidding me?

Do I look like I’m kidding?

Why? Why would you want to do that?

A couple of reasons.

Such as?

Well, I’m kind of curious to know what it feels like.

Michael knotted his brow. Where is this coming from, Annie? Is this about us?

It has nothing to do with us, or work, or anything else, for that matter. It’s just something I want.

Are you thinking about acting this out like in a play, or really being executed?

She smiled slightly. It wouldn’t be an execution unless someone died from it, now would it?

I can’t believe this! You just said you want to kill yourself!

"No, I don’t want to ‘kill myself’; I want to be executed. There is a difference. If I wanted to kill myself, I could just hang myself or take a bottle full of sleeping pills, and that would be that."

I just can’t believe this.

Annie shrugged.

Okay—what’s your other reason?

She cocked her head. Well, I think it would also give proof of my courage, proof of my dignity. Going through such a thing would make me an extraordinary person, just as those women were.

It seems to me, Annie, you could find other things about them to admire. Besides, you don’t deserve to be executed.

Neither did Lady Jane Grey.

"Well, I’m sure she didn’t want to be executed; she was executed against her will, just like the others."

"That’s the point. All of them were unwilling. So, if I were to volunteer for my own beheading, I’d prove that I’m at least as brave as they were."

Or proving that you don’t have any sense.

She scowled.

Annie, doesn’t the idea of dying like that frighten you? I mean, think about what it must be like to have your head severed from your body.

"Yes, it is scary, but that’s exactly what makes going through with it such an act of courage."

And it’s probably painful.

That’s what I was thinking. So, I’m doing research to find out if it is. I don’t like pain. And God knows I’ve already had enough of it in my life.

Michael gave her a cock-eyed look then picked up his wine. You know what, Annie? I think this is bullshit.

I don’t expect you to feel the way I feel.

No, I don’t mean that. I think you’re just saying all this to piss me off. And you know what? It’s working.

I’m not trying to piss you off. I’m totally serious. She placed her hand on his. Would you like to help me if I decide to go through with it?

Help you what?

My execution.

"You want me to chop off your head for you?"

She smiled slightly. I can’t do it by myself, you know.

You are crazy.

She stroked his hand. Why wouldn’t you help?

I could never do such a thing to you. Besides, it would be murder.

What if you had my permission? What if I left a note?

Then it would be assisted suicide, which is just about as bad. Look, I don’t know where you got this loony idea, but I suggest you talk to someone about it. I mean, a professional. You’re saying some scary stuff, and I don’t like it.

She withdrew her hand. I know what I’m saying sounds kind of weird, but I was hoping you’d be a little more understanding.

Understanding? I think you’re fucking nuts.

She threw her napkin on the table. That’s it. Take me home.

Annie, you want someone to chop off your head! Don’t you see how crazy that is?

She noticed a couple at a nearby table looking at them. Keep your voice down, Michael. I don’t want the whole damned restaurant hearing us.

I can’t believe it.

Yes, I’ll admit it sounds crazy. It’s not for everyone. Besides, I haven’t decided whether I want to do it yet.

The fact that you’re even considering it makes me wonder about you.

She rolled her eyes. Give me a break.

You’re going to stop this train of thought right now.

Don’t talk to me that way. You don’t control me.

I’m not trying to control you; I’m trying to talk some sense into you.

No, you’re trying to control me.

Annie!

I’m sick and tired of people like you telling me what I should and shouldn’t do. It’s my life, and I can do what I want with it.

This whole thing is ridiculous.

No, it’s not. Take me home.

Annie’s research on the Internet about beheadings was inconclusive, so she took a day off from work to visit Professor Hines, a professor of biology and forensics at Bethel College, where she had been a student. When she arrived, he was in the middle of conducting a first year biology class in a large lecture room in the old science building. She waited for him in the hallway by the door, listening to his voice echo against the old brick walls and ancient, heavily waxed floors. She recalled with nostalgia the countless hours she’d spent in the building as a student. When class was over, she entered the classroom just as he was snapping shut his briefcase.

Hi, Professor Hines.

Annie Roth! What a pleasant surprise to see you!

She smiled. It’s great to be back. I kind of miss it here.

You still doing technical writing?

Yes. How are things with you?

Just fine. The spring quarter’s just beginning. I like teaching these 101 classes. I remember when you took the same class I’m teaching now. You were one of my best students, although you did tend to daydream a lot in class.

Sorry.

Didn’t you leave the area after you graduated?

Yes, I came back just for today to do some visiting.

Well, you came to see me at the right time. It’s my office hours. Come with me.

They left the empty classroom and entered the hallway. There was not a student in sight. Annie was amazed at how quickly the large class had dispersed. She walked slowly to keep pace with the elderly professor’s gait.

I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for a personal project I’m working on.

I’ll do the best I can.

What’s the most merciful way to execute someone?

The professor winced. Why do you want to know that?

Like I said, it’s a personal project. Indulge me, please, Professor.

He shrugged. Well, that answer depends on what you consider merciful. Painless or quick. It’s hard to get both.

What about hanging?

If it’s done properly, it severs the spinal cord, causing a quick death. Too little length on the rope and the condemned slowly strangles to death. Too much and you rip the head off. It’s difficult to get right unless you have a chart. The challenge is to match the length of the drop with the weight of the condemned.

Electrocution?

Cooks you from the inside out. I wouldn’t wish that on a dog—not unless it’s a hot dog.

Beheading?

The guillotine, eh? Probably merciful. Similar to a proper hanging, because the spinal cord is severed. They still behead in some countries in the Middle East. It’s done with a scimitar, I hear. Why are you asking these things?

I’m curious.

You’re curious about the oddest things, Annie. I remember you also came up with some odd questions when you were taking my classes.

Tell me more about beheading. Do you think the brain remains alive for a while after it’s severed from the body?

I’d say it’s a possibility. After all, there’s still going to be oxygen in the brain’s tissue.

How long?

He shrugged.

Could it be long enough for the person to comprehend what’s happened?

The professor stopped and faced her. That’s a horrible thought, Annie.

I’m just asking, because I read that people who watched guillotine executions saw the eyelids flutter and lips move on the heads after the execution.

Yes, I’ve read the accounts. The movements could have been nothing more than autonomous reflex actions. The brain might even undergo something similar to an epileptic seizure from the trauma of being separated from its body. That could be what they saw.

But what about the 1905 execution of the murderer Leguille? A doctor who was there reported that whenever he said the man’s name, the eyelids on the severed head opened, and the eyes stared at him. The head responded for about thirty seconds.

Yes, yes. And in grad school, I saw the eyes of the lab animals following us right after we decapitated them for brain chemical research. What’s the point, Annie?

Well, if the eyes are there looking around, couldn’t it mean that the brain inside the severed head is still conscious?

The professor sighed. "I’ll concede that there could be up to thirty seconds of consciousness before the brain cells shut down. It sometimes takes about that much time for a person to lose consciousness after the heart stops beating."

Annie stroked her lips. Do you think the head feels pain?

That’s hard to say. I imagine you could tell by looking at the facial expression, but I personally don’t know anyone who’s looked into the face of a freshly severed head, nor are there any contemporary reports. The professor continued walking. But consider this: when you cut your finger, do you feel the cut instantly? Or does it take a while for the pain to kick in?

It takes a while.

You remember that physiology class I taught? Why do you suppose you don’t feel the pain?

The brain cells release endorphins that mute the sensation of pain.

Good. You remembered.

Endorphins also create a natural high in athletes.

Yes, they do.

Annie tapped her chin. It makes sense, then, that the brain in a severed head might flood itself with endorphins as a response to the trauma of being separated from the body. That means that the mind inside a freshly severed head must feel incredible pleasure in its last waking moments—maybe even an orgasm!

The professor chuckled. "I wouldn’t go that far, but there may be a connection between such a thing and auto-erotic asphyxiation…"

After Annie visited with Professor Hines, she visited her instructors in the History Department. One of her instructors happened to have a picture book of authentic Renaissance dresses. From these, she surmised what 16th and 17th century women might have worn to their executions. She took home a manila envelope full of photocopies. That night, she downloaded a full-color drawing of Anne Boleyn. She liked the photo so much that she printed it and mounted it into a gold frame her mother had given her last Christmas.

For the next few days, Annie mulled over the professor’s ideas and the question of consciousness and pain. What do you think, Anne? she would ask the portrait, which she had set on the coffee table. Annie concluded that the matter would best be determined using a live subject. So, the next Saturday afternoon, she visited a pet store in a strip mall near her apartment.

A bell affixed to the top of the glass door tinkled as she entered the shop. The pet shop owner, a graying, middle-aged man with a meticulously trimmed mustache, nodded to her from the cash register. She wandered through the aisles of the pet store amid the occasional shrieks of exotic birds and the low, steady hum from the fish aquariums. She passed by a cage with an iguana. The lizard, clutching a piece of wood, stared back at her with its cold lizard eyes. He was large enough, but no, he would not do. How could you tell what a lizard is feeling, if it feels at all? Besides, he was $275. Across the aisle from the snakes were rats and mice. She considered one of those, but they were too small. Besides, she didn’t like to handle them because of their tail—it gave her the willies. Next to the mice were the rabbits. How cute! she said aloud. One of them, a black one with a white spot on the top of its head, caught her eye. She thought it was the most expressive-looking one of the bunch.

You looking for a rabbit? the store owner asked.

Yes.

Male or female?

I’d like that one, she said, pointing into the cage.

I think that’s a female.

Perfect.

You need a cage? We have them on sale. Food, too.

No, thank you. I just want the rabbit.

She put the rabbit in her car in a cardboard box the pet shop owner had given her from the back of the store. Next, she made a quick trip to a hardware store where she picked up a hatchet.

The box with the rabbit inside rested on her passenger seat. On the trip back to her apartment, she would occasionally reach into the box, stroke the rabbit, and say soothing things to it. The car reeked of urine long before she got home. The odor made her nauseous, and she had to drive with her window down despite the misty weather. When she removed the box, she noticed that the rabbit’s urine had leaked onto her car seat. Disgusted, she put the box containing the rabbit into her bathtub and then spent almost a half hour trying to remove the odor from the seat.

Why does this kind of thing only happen to me? she moaned as she put more Lysol on the sponge.

The odor never really disappeared to her satisfaction, and it was beginning to rain, so she went back to her apartment. The first thing she did was take the stinking rabbit box to the dumpster, leaving the rabbit to hop around in the bathtub. When she returned, the rabbit was no longer in the tub. After ten minutes of searching and calling it fruitlessly, she located it behind the hide-a-bed couch. Her arm was not long enough to reach it, and no amount of baiting with lettuce or gentle prodding with a broom handle would extract it. When she moved the couch, which was no easy task because it was so heavy, the rabbit darted behind the entertainment center, which was impossible to move without first removing the heavy television and stereo equipment from its shelves.

A half-hour later, after she had moved all the furniture away from the walls and there was nowhere else for the rabbit to hide, she managed to corner it in the bathroom behind the toilet bowl. It sat there trembling with its ears folded down over its back and its nose twitching vigorously. It appeared ready to bolt again when she reached for it. At that point, she decided to simply close the door so that it could not escape.

First, she got out her cutting board and positioned it at the edge of the kitchen sink. She checked the sharpness of her new hatchet. The cutting edge seemed adequate for hacking tree branches, but it was too blunt to readily be used as an executioners’ instrument. She pulled out a knife sharpening stone and spent a considerable time sharpening the hatchet, stopping only after its blade would reliably cut a sheet of paper run across it. When she returned to the bathroom an hour later, the rabbit had calmed down, and she had no trouble lifting it from behind the toilet. Gently stroking the creature, she carried it to the kitchen sink and placed it on the cutting board.

Before picking up the hatchet, she felt the rabbit’s neck. The neck was much scrawnier than it looked; its apparent thickness was mostly fur. She thought the scrawny neck was a good thing, just in case her aim was off.

Holding the rabbit firmly with her left hand, she picked up the hatchet with her right. She thought about what she was looking for. How would she know what the rabbit felt after the hatchet came down? She would look into its eyes. That’s how she would tell. She would look into its eyes immediately after the head was separated from its body. She raised the hatchet to strike the creature squarely behind the neck. Then she noticed that its ears were folded back over its neck. Would that affect the results? She put down the hatchet and tried lifting the ears, but they would not stay in their upright position very long before flopping back down over the neck. She considered duct taping the rabbit’s ears against the sides of its head to keep them out of the way but felt that the rabbit would never tolerate that. Patiently, she held the rabbit’s ears upright for a long time and slowly released them. Now they were staying up.

Moving slowly, she grasped the hatchet, raised it, and took careful aim. The blade passed easily through the creature’s small neck and embedded itself into the cutting board. The rabbit’s head dropped into the sink. The body began twitching and writhing wildly while bright red blood spurted copiously from its neck, splattering her, the hatchet, and the kitchen counter. She stepped back in horror, completely forgetting to look at the head. The headless body flipped itself onto its back. Its legs pumped wildly as though it were hopping upside down. A hoard of dark green fecal pellets popped out of its anus, and a pool of urine merged with the blood on the cutting board.

Clutching her belly, Annie ran to the bathroom and vomited. After she felt better, she went back to the