Saturday's Storyteller: Bunny
Bunny
by Belinda Roddie
We met at one of the worst times of my life. I had survived a tornado, but my wife had not. I had been pulled out of the rubble, semi-conscious, by a National Guard airwoman, her face sweaty and somber above her camo uniform. She had had to hear me scream, had to try to wipe the blood from the cuts in my forehead and face while holding my shaking body and listening to me sob.
My wife was one of only a few casualties. Fate had not been on her side. And I was certain that I could have saved her if I had only been downstairs instead of upstairs.
With the destruction of my apartment, I spent a good three days in a shelter set up by the National Guard, being tended to by the same airwoman who had rescued me. For a while, I was bitter with her, no matter how kind she was to me as she tended to my injuries and provided me food and water. Her set jawline, stripped of a smile, showed me that she had to remain professional, and I knew that chewing her out for doing the right thing was worthless. How was she supposed to read my mind and know that I didn't want to live alone? Then again, I was terrified of death, so she had, honestly, done me a favor. Somehow.
I moved back in with my parents a few cities away, where I stayed for over a year. I worked the best desk job I could, given I couldn't stand up for long periods of time, as my fall during the tornado tremendous injury to my lower back. I rode a recumbent bicycle every day to ease the pain and keep my leg muscles from atrophying. I adopted a cat as soon as I got another place to live. I had no roommates. I didn't go out. Those two years after what I had happened, I was in limbo. No Heaven, no Hell.
Then I was in line at a coffee shop, and I saw a familiar face.
"You want that chai hot or iced?"
I was frozen. Last I had seen this woman, she was in uniform, not in an apron. She couldn't have been older than twenty; I was thirty-two, yet I was often mistaken for younger. Even when scarred, I was baby-faced. Still, I finally got myself to speak.
"I know you," I said. "From the tornado. You saved my life."
I figured she wouldn't recognize me. But somehow, she did. She smiled, and to see that for the first time made my heart unexpectedly skip.
"Well, howdy, stranger," she said in a coy voice. "Hot or iced?"
She sat down with me once I had ordered my iced chai, and our conversation felt more natural than any other chat I had had within the past six months.
***
We mutually confessed our adoration for one another on the same night, when we went out for burgers and both made sure not to get tomatoes. The airwoman - my airwoman now - had told me she had been very nervous to go any further besides the coffee "date" we had initially improvised. Her reason: The age gap, and, "I never wanted to compete against...well..."
She meant my wife; I knew that. But I made something very clear to her: No one was going to compare with my wife. And that was okay; hell, that was even the point. I wanted this girl to be different than my wife was, a whole new adventure entirely.
I loved my airwoman's laugh. I loved her butch style and the way she crinkled her nose when smelling something unsettling. I loved that she barely broke five feet in height yet felt "tall" because of the fact that she wasn't 4'11". I loved how close she was with her mom, especially when her father wanted nothing to do with her or me in this "sinful" relationship. I loved the way she played with my hair as I fell asleep on the couch, the way she dealt with my constant flashbacks and PTSD episodes. She struggled with those as well, given her experience in the Guard; she had been honorably discharged at such a young age, and the memories stuck with her like painful velcro.
I loved my airwoman's inability to cook anything beyond pasta, so I was the gourmet chef while she was the gourmand. I loved that, when we moved in together, she was okay with me dedicating a corner to the living room in my wife's memory: Photos, heirlooms, and letters were kept in an antique chest as a symbol of the past. I loved how many stories she had to tell, and how much she cared for others, even going out of her way to pay for people's groceries when we had some spare funds.
But I think the thing I loved most about her was that, while she owned two bunny rabbits, her own nickname was "Bunny." Her real name was Bonnie, but her little sister hadn't been able to pronounce it properly, so this was what she ended up with. Her long-eared pets were actually named Link and Zelda, obviously due to her favorite video game franchise. They would always get skittish around me, but they were fine with my cat Mickey and even got a bit bouncy when the fat tabby rolled around the corner. Bunny and I would sit for hours with Link, Zelda, and Mickey, cooing over them as we watched whatever ridiculous banter was on Netflix. Those were some of the best times of my life.
This week's prompt was provided by Jocelyn Morton.
by Belinda Roddie
We met at one of the worst times of my life. I had survived a tornado, but my wife had not. I had been pulled out of the rubble, semi-conscious, by a National Guard airwoman, her face sweaty and somber above her camo uniform. She had had to hear me scream, had to try to wipe the blood from the cuts in my forehead and face while holding my shaking body and listening to me sob.
My wife was one of only a few casualties. Fate had not been on her side. And I was certain that I could have saved her if I had only been downstairs instead of upstairs.
With the destruction of my apartment, I spent a good three days in a shelter set up by the National Guard, being tended to by the same airwoman who had rescued me. For a while, I was bitter with her, no matter how kind she was to me as she tended to my injuries and provided me food and water. Her set jawline, stripped of a smile, showed me that she had to remain professional, and I knew that chewing her out for doing the right thing was worthless. How was she supposed to read my mind and know that I didn't want to live alone? Then again, I was terrified of death, so she had, honestly, done me a favor. Somehow.
I moved back in with my parents a few cities away, where I stayed for over a year. I worked the best desk job I could, given I couldn't stand up for long periods of time, as my fall during the tornado tremendous injury to my lower back. I rode a recumbent bicycle every day to ease the pain and keep my leg muscles from atrophying. I adopted a cat as soon as I got another place to live. I had no roommates. I didn't go out. Those two years after what I had happened, I was in limbo. No Heaven, no Hell.
Then I was in line at a coffee shop, and I saw a familiar face.
"You want that chai hot or iced?"
I was frozen. Last I had seen this woman, she was in uniform, not in an apron. She couldn't have been older than twenty; I was thirty-two, yet I was often mistaken for younger. Even when scarred, I was baby-faced. Still, I finally got myself to speak.
"I know you," I said. "From the tornado. You saved my life."
I figured she wouldn't recognize me. But somehow, she did. She smiled, and to see that for the first time made my heart unexpectedly skip.
"Well, howdy, stranger," she said in a coy voice. "Hot or iced?"
She sat down with me once I had ordered my iced chai, and our conversation felt more natural than any other chat I had had within the past six months.
***
We mutually confessed our adoration for one another on the same night, when we went out for burgers and both made sure not to get tomatoes. The airwoman - my airwoman now - had told me she had been very nervous to go any further besides the coffee "date" we had initially improvised. Her reason: The age gap, and, "I never wanted to compete against...well..."
She meant my wife; I knew that. But I made something very clear to her: No one was going to compare with my wife. And that was okay; hell, that was even the point. I wanted this girl to be different than my wife was, a whole new adventure entirely.
I loved my airwoman's laugh. I loved her butch style and the way she crinkled her nose when smelling something unsettling. I loved that she barely broke five feet in height yet felt "tall" because of the fact that she wasn't 4'11". I loved how close she was with her mom, especially when her father wanted nothing to do with her or me in this "sinful" relationship. I loved the way she played with my hair as I fell asleep on the couch, the way she dealt with my constant flashbacks and PTSD episodes. She struggled with those as well, given her experience in the Guard; she had been honorably discharged at such a young age, and the memories stuck with her like painful velcro.
I loved my airwoman's inability to cook anything beyond pasta, so I was the gourmet chef while she was the gourmand. I loved that, when we moved in together, she was okay with me dedicating a corner to the living room in my wife's memory: Photos, heirlooms, and letters were kept in an antique chest as a symbol of the past. I loved how many stories she had to tell, and how much she cared for others, even going out of her way to pay for people's groceries when we had some spare funds.
But I think the thing I loved most about her was that, while she owned two bunny rabbits, her own nickname was "Bunny." Her real name was Bonnie, but her little sister hadn't been able to pronounce it properly, so this was what she ended up with. Her long-eared pets were actually named Link and Zelda, obviously due to her favorite video game franchise. They would always get skittish around me, but they were fine with my cat Mickey and even got a bit bouncy when the fat tabby rolled around the corner. Bunny and I would sit for hours with Link, Zelda, and Mickey, cooing over them as we watched whatever ridiculous banter was on Netflix. Those were some of the best times of my life.
This week's prompt was provided by Jocelyn Morton.
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