I have a fur hat. It's made of rabbit skin. I don't feel bad about that, though society might expect it of me. Guilt, I mean. For wearing fur. The blood of innocent rabbits is on my hands. Or rather, head. Well, on my head be it. I don't feel bad one bit.
How cruel, you say. How inhumane. Well, my friend, I saw you eat a burger yesterday. I saw you suck the marrow from a chicken bone. It didn't take you long; in a matter of minutes you'd devoured it whole. And didn't that cow, that chicken have a life, too? Don't you believe it had a soul? And it was killed only for your gastronomic pleasure. Did it please you? A life ended in a series of bites and chews and swallows. Did you swallow your guilt down too? Does it sit there in the pit of your stomach, getting cold?
You put it on your plate and now it's gone.
Well, my hat will serve me all winter long.
And many winters to come. The rabbits' lives were fleeting, but their skin lives on.
And perhaps I don't deserve so kind a sacrifice.
Maybe I should pay some sort of penance, some sort of price?
So when I die, please be so kind as to take my bones,
and build a lovely little hutch for rabbits to call home.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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