The end of Bunny

The white rabbits came closer still. Any closer, I feared, and we would have imploded by the sheer congregated mass of colorless fluff. When the wet snout of the front-most bunny touched mine, they stopped. “We are all prisoners here.” A voice seemed to drone from nowhere, out of the white (rather than proverbial blue). Still a tad drowsy from the hypnosis I could not pinpoint the source of the reverb-rich voice. In addition, something about the spanning whiteness rendered me dizzy in the way that skiing for a whole day does. “Who is speaking?” I asked, looking to and aft. “We are all prisoners, and we will all die out there.” Once again I asked, “who is speaking? Where am I?” A thousand red dots swam in the pallid sea of fur. “You are speaking to us. We are all prisoners.” “Yes, so you say. But who exactly am I addressing here? Could you please step forward?” The encircling mass nudged closer now and I could feel their faces touching my fur on all sides. At this point I was beginning to miss the mundane hustle of the life I left behind, like paparazzi, effete business lunches or being stuck in traffic on my way to see Kofi Annan. “Ok, never mind,” I said. “How did I get here? How can I get the hell out?” “You can only leave when they come for you. But then it’s too late. We have been bred for consumption and apparel. Individually we are too weak to even think or speak. But in the thousands that have been gathered in this place of death, we are able to combine our force of life and assemble simple thoughts, and contrive simple plans such as ‘what shall we eat today?’ or ‘wither shall we hop?’ But since these questions are circumscribed by those that purvey both daily nutrition and random death, our combined brainpower too is dwindling. Soon, our friend, this collective ego shall disappear, and we will be dead before, as well as after slaughter. “But that’s horrible,” I protested. “There must be something we, I mean, you can do.” At this point I became shockingly aware that the voice that was audible through my ears, softly and strangely resonated inside my cranium too. Soon I realized that the collective mind of these captive lagamorphs was slowly encroaching on my individual being. I ‘Bunny Benzo’, a.k.a. ‘Cute Buns Bunzenburner’ was being morphed into ‘We, the unfortunate occupants of this hall, the future victims of mass murder.’ Panicked, I started jumping in the air real high in order to get rid of the voices. But it availed nothing. The murmur grew louder, and I figured that within the hour, I would cease to exist altogether, lost in the frothy white of oblivion.