Cursed Bunny

by Bora Chung

  It was the CEO’s son who had the stroke. After the man had cried himself to sleep on his dead son’s bed, he woke up the next morning, put a foot down on the floor … and promptly broke his right ankle. As he fell, he flung out his left arm to protect his head, breaking it in three places along with sustaining a hairline crack.

  The CEO’s son was barely forty, a healthy adult man. He had never had a serious injury in his life, nor had he ever broken a bone before.

  As the CEO’s son lay in bed with large casts on his right leg and left arm after the bones had metal rivets surgically screwed into them, the company began to deteriorate at a rapid rate. The CEO was so busy running, both away from his creditors and after his debtors, that he didn’t even have time to visit his only son in the hospital. The CEO’s son anxiously interrogated his wife about the goings-on of the company, and determining that he couldn’t just lay there as the company fell apart, he tried to get up from the bed. But the moment he put his undamaged left foot on the floor, it broke. He fell over and fractured his tailbone.

  The subsequent operation took nine whole hours. Afterwards, he was brought back to his hospital room where, under the influence of anesthesia, he rested motionless for a long time save for the occasional nose-wriggling and nibbling motion of his lips.

  The bunny nibbled away.

  The CEO finally came to see his son in the hospital on the day the company went bankrupt. Like a mummy, his son was almost completely wrapped in bandages and fast asleep thanks to the tranquilizers.

  When he woke from anesthesia the first time, he mumbled something about a rabbit sitting on the bed. At first, no one took his words seriously. The CEO’s son insisted that there was a rabbit sitting on the bed, eating away at his blanket. No one took that seriously, either. The CEO’s son finally yelled that the rabbit was eating his feet, and he tried to jump out of bed. His bewildered wife called for help, and a group of nurses rushed in and tried to restrain him. The man resisted, shouting something incomprehensible about bunnies. Two nurses held down his arms and his wife hugged his torso. That was how his right arm broke and two of his ribs got cracked.

  After that, every time he opened his eyes the CEO’s son screamed about bunnies, and his bones would break each time they restrained him. They broke when the people trying to help pinned him down, they broke when he banged his hand against his headboard or struggled against his casts. The only way to allow him to recover was to keep him constantly sedated.

  The CEO stared at the bandage-wrapped face of his unresponsive son, who was locked in insensate despair. His precious grandson was already dead, and his sole heir, a son who was third in a generational line of only sons, had become this worthless, broken lump. The company was gone, and all he was left with was debt—the unpaid taxes and fines, his loans, and his son’s hospital fees. He couldn’t take his son out of the hospital when his bones shattered at the slightest touch. And it would all be over if he himself ended up in jail for tax evasion.

  Grandfather stops the story and stares into the lamp. The bunny underneath the tree is plump, with fur that is white except for the tips of its black ears and tail. It’s made of a hard material, but the luminous bunny next to Grandfather seems covered in soft fur, its ears about to twitch and its mouth about to make nibbling motions.

  “So what happened next?” I ask. Of course, I know what happens next. The questions I ask when the storytelling stops in the expected places aren’t questions per se, but prompts for him to go on with the story, unwritten stage directions we have more or less come to agree upon.

  “They all died,” says Grandfather, absently stroking the ears and head of the bunny. “The CEO’s son died in the hospital, a funeral was held, and the next day, the CEO himself fell from the roof of his company building.”

  The bunny flicks the tip of its ears.

  Never make a cursed fetish for personal reasons. Never use a handmade object in a personal curse. There are reasons for these unwritten rules.

  There’s a Japanese saying that goes, “Cursing others leads to two graves.” Anyone who curses another person is sure to end up in a grave themselves.

  Although in Grandfather’s case, there are more than two graves: the CEO he cursed, the CEO’s son, and the CEO’s grandson. All dead. And to this day, no one knows the location of Grandfather’s grave. He just left home one day and never returned.

  Well, no. I suppose he did return.

  On evenings when the moon is covered by gloomy clouds, or when it’s raining so heavily that the showers seem to obscure the light of the streetlamps, or on nights so dark and forlorn that no light neither natural nor artificial can withstand it, Grandfather reappears in the armchair next to the window, turns on the bunny lamp, and begins to tell the same story he has told me scores of times before.

  Perhaps that’s Grandfather’s curse.

  Or, his blessing.

  “It’s late,” he says, “you’ve got to sleep early if you want to go to school tomorrow.”

  I am well past school-attending age. No one in this house goes to school anymore. But I always answer the same way.

  “Yes, Grandfather. Good night.”

  Then, on impulse, I give his wrinkled cheek a light peck.

  There was a time when I wondered if I should ask how he died, what happened to his body, or where his grave is. I’ve thought about it several times. But now I firmly suppress the desire to ask whenever it threatens to get a hold of me.

  If Grandfather ever remembers how he died, he might stop coming. Worse, he might not remember, leaving my questions unanswered, and his surprise at my questions may make him disappear for good. I couldn’t stand it if that happened.

  So I say nothing. I quietly turn around, go back to my room, and close the door.

  But not completely. I leave it open a crack to see Grandfather still sitting in the armchair and the pretty bunny lamp shining next to him. The sight reassures me.

  “When we make our cursed fetishes, it’s important that they’re pretty.”

  That’s what my grandfather used to say. And business is better than ever these days.

  If I keep doing the work that I’m doing now, I’ll end up like Grandfather. Dead but not dead, sitting in the dark of some living room on a moonless night in front of an object that keeps me anchored to the world of the living.

  But by the time I sit at that armchair by the window, there will be no child or grandchild to listen to my story. And in this twisted, wretched life of mine, that single fact remains my sole consolation.

  I close the door and walk down the hall into complete darkness.

  The Frozen Finger

  She opens her eyes.

  Darkness. Pitch black. Like someone has dropped a thick veil of black over her eyes. Not even a pinpoint of light to be seen.

  Has she gone blind?

  She tries moving a hand in front of her face. There does seem to be a faint object there. But nothing she can clearly discern.

  After a few more attempts at this, she gives up. The darkness is simply too dense.

  What hour could be so dark? And where in the world …

  She extends her arm and probes the space before her. A round thing. Solid.

  A steering wheel.

  She slips her right hand behind the wheel. The ignition. Her keys are still in it. She turns them. No response. The engine is dead.

  Her left hand prods the left side of the wheel. It grips something that feels like a hard stick. She pulls it down. The left-arrow on the dashboard should have lit up. No light to be seen. She pushes it down. Still no light. She feels her way to the tip of the lever and turns the headlight switch. And of course, the lights do not turn on.

  What has happened?

  She tries to remember. But her memories are as dark as the scene before her.

  “—eacher.”

  A woman’s voice, thin and frail. She looks up. The voice calls for her again.

  “Teacher.”

  Craning he
r head toward the voice, she strains her ears attempting to determine where it’s coming from. But the voice is so thin that its direction is unclear.

  “Teacher Lee.”

  “Yes?” she answers. She can’t make out where the voice is coming from, who is speaking—or whether the voice is in fact calling for her. But the sound of another person’s voice in the darkness is such a relief that she finds herself answering before she can stop herself.

  “Are you there? Who are you? I’m over here!”

  “Teacher Lee, are you all right?” The voice is coming from the left. “Teacher Lee, are you hurt?”

  She tries moving her arms and legs. No pain anywhere in particular. “No.”

  The thin voice, still coming from the left, says, “Then come out of the car, quickly.”

  “Why? What happened? Where am I?”

  “We’re in a swamp,” the thin voice patiently explains, “and the car is sinking, little by little. I think you better come out of there.”

  She tries to get up. The safety belt presses down on her torso. Tracing the belt to her waist, she presses the release and the safety belt disengages. She turns to the left and gropes around for the door handle. There, the glass pane of the window. More prodding, downward.

  “Teacher, you must hurry.”

  The door handle. She pulls it. The door doesn’t move. She pushes it.

  “Teacher Lee, hurry!”

  “The door won’t open.”

  She doesn’t know what to do.

  The thin voice commands, “It’s locked from the inside. You must unlock it.”

  Feeling around the door handle again, she can feel the protrusions of buttons; she presses them, one by one. At the third button, she hears a clunk. The brief vibration felt through the door is as welcome as the Savior Himself.

  She pulls at the door handle again. The door seems to open little by little. But it’s blocked by something.

  “The door won’t open,” she says, pushing it with her shoulder.

  From right beside her, the thin voice says, “That’s because the car is lodged in mud. Let me help you.”

  Someone’s finger brushes against her hand that’s pushing the door. The door opens a little more.

  “Quickly. Get out of there,” says the thin voice.

  Doing as the voice commands, she brings her left leg out of the car first before suddenly remembering something.

  “Wait … wait a second.”

  She crouches down in the seat and starts to grope around beneath the steering wheel. The long thing on the right is the accelerator, the wide thing on the left is the brake. She stretches her right hand into the space below the pedals. She can feel the scratchy mat and the mud smeared on it. Of the thing she is searching for, nothing.

  “What are you doing? You must get out of there immediately!” The thin voice is getting anxious.

  “Just wait …”

  Extending her hand even further beneath the seat, she feels a long, thin steel rod. It's probably the lever that adjusts the driver’s seat, moving it back and forth. She feels underneath it. Again, just the mat and mud, plus a little dust.

  She can feel her left leg, the one that made it outside the car, slowly start to rise. The car door begins to close with it, putting pressure on her left leg.

  The voice shouts, “Teacher Lee, hurry! I don’t know what you’re looking for, but just leave it and come out!”

  “But … but …” She can’t bring herself to say it.

  “But what? What is it?”

  “Something very important …” Her voice trails off.

  She touches her left hand with her right. There’s no ring on her left ring finger. Her hands feel about the driver’s seat where she’s sitting, then the passenger side.

  “What could be so important? What is it?” the thin voice asks again.

  Her left hand grabbing the frame of the car, she stretches her right arm as far as she can to beneath the passenger-side seat.

  “A ring …”

  Her hand can’t reach as far as the other seat; all she can grasp are the gearshift and handbrake. She manages to stretch her arm a little further. There’s no one in the passenger-side seat. Perhaps because of her odd posture, her hand can’t quite reach the bottom of the other seat.

  The finger from before touches her left hand again.

  “This. Is this what you’re talking about?”

  A small, round, and hard object against her skin. Someone’s fingers slip it onto the ring finger of her left hand.

  She sits up and touches her left hand with her right. It’s still impossible to see, but the smooth touch and the slightly uncomfortable thickness pressing against her fingers feels familiar.

  “Is this it?” asks the thin voice.

  “Yes. How did you—”

  “This is it, right? Come out, quick. It’s dangerous,” says the thin voice urgently.

  With her right hand, she pushes the slowly closing door. She barely manages to squeeze the left side of her body out the door.

  “Be careful,” warns the thin voice. “The ground outside isn’t solid.”

  Her left foot lands on the ground with a plop. She shoves the car door with her left hand and the car frame with her right, slowly getting out of the car.

  With every step, her feet sink into the ground. It’s hard to keep her balance. Just as she’s about to stumble, the frozen fingers grab onto her left hand.

  “Be careful. One step at a time, slowly.”

  Doing as the voice instructs, she takes one tentative step at a time, moving further and further away from the car.

  Suddenly, she stops.

  “What’s wrong?” asks the voice.

  “Did you … hear something?”

  “Hear what?” the voice asks again.

  “Someone … I thought there was someone there.”

  The thin voice is silent, as if pausing to listen. Then, it says, “You’re mistaken. There’s only the two of us here.”

  She listens again.

  The sound is vague. Somewhat far away in the distance, or right by her ear, something like a human voice, or the wind …

  The sound withers into silence.

  “I’m so sure there was someone there—”

  “There’s no one here except us,” the voice says adamantly. “If you think you heard something, it might have been wild animals.” The fingers gripping her left hand give a squeeze. “I think … we should run away from here.”

  The voice sounds afraid.

  Fear seeps from her fingers through her hand, moving up her arm and into her heart.

  Wordlessly, she begins to walk.

  Her feet occasionally sink into the unstable ground, almost making her fall. Whenever that happens, the fingers, gripping her left hand so hard that it hurts, hold her steady and help her find her balance.

  There is no way of knowing where they are going. Nor of determining where they are. But the thin voice sounds as frightened as she feels, and the fingers that grasp her left hand feel dependable. And so, she decides to believe in the voice and fingers as they walk together over the pitch-black ground into which their feet sink, going further into the unknown.

  “Ah, here we go,” the voice says, reassured. “The ground is firmer here.”

  That moment, her left foot lands on firm ground. Then, her right.

  “It’s so much easier to walk,” says the voice, delighted.

  “Shall we rest a bit?” she suggests. Walking endlessly through mud into which her feet keep sinking was exhausting for both the body and soul.

  Without waiting for an answer, she sits down on the road. The owner of the thin voice sits down next to her. She can’t see her, but she can sense her sitting down.

  “That ring. It must be very important?” the thin voice asks carefully.

  She fondles the round, hard, and smooth object on the ring finger of her left hand.

  “Well … yes.”

  The thin voice asks aga
in, still careful. “Is it … really that important?”

  “Well … I mean …”

  Her hand keeps touching the ring finger.

  A large, warm hand, memories of that hand wrapped around her own, a familiar face she was always glad to see, such pleasure, such happiness … Something like that. An important, precious something, like …

  But the more she tries to recall these memories the fainter they become, and like the last rays of the setting sun, they disappear leaving just a trace of their warmth behind. The only thing left in her mind is that which has ruled her and surrounded her since the moment she opened her eyes: the darkness.

  As she keeps silent, the thin voice apologizes.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry—”

  “Oh … it’s fine.”

  She is beginning to feel like something is wrong.

  “I just … I can’t remember … My mind is so dark—”

  “Oh no. Are you hurt?” The thin voice sounds worried.

  “But … I’m not sick at all.”

  “Let me see.”

  She can feel the fingers touch her forehead and scalp.

  “Does this hurt?” asks the thin voice.

  “No.”

  The fingers tap her temples. “What about here?”

  “It’s fine—”

  “Oh no …” The voice sighs lightly. “We should get out of here quick and go to a hospital as soon as possible.”

  She touches her own head and face. There doesn’t seem to be any wounds, and she doesn’t feel any bleeding. There is only the darkness that permeates her mind.

  “Um … excuse me,” she says after touching her face and head for a bit. “Where … where are we? What happened to us?”

  “Oh my, you don’t remember?” The voice seems surprised.

  “Not a thing,” she answers listlessly.

  “We went to Teacher Choi and her new husband’s house-warming party and got into an accident on the way back … You really don’t remember?”

  “No.”

  Nothing, she remembers nothing. She turns the inside of her head upside down, looking for something. All she finds is darkness and yet more darkness.