And Then There Was One

I just arrived in this new home last week. I’d like to think of it fondly, but the place just gives me the heebeejeebies. The suite itself is nice–three floors and easy accessibility to everything–but my roommates are what really rub me the wrong way. They’re both very off, for lack of a better word.

First, there’s Charlie. I don’t know what happened to him, but he’s got this condition, some type of growth in his brain, that causes his head to be lopsided. It’s always at a tilt, which somehow makes the continuous staring even more pronounced. His lion-like, overgrown hair has even melted into the constant position, parting in a way that’s permanently stuck. Despite the fact that he always looks crazed, it really messes with his balance too. He can’t walk in a straight line. If he’s caught off guard, he ends up running circles. There’s got to be something mental going on.

Olive is much skinnier. She has deep eyes and slick, dark hair that’s always brushed perfectly into place. She is capable of living on her own: she cleans, explores frequently, and passionately advocates for more dinner. Her main problem, though, is being alone. She can’t do it. On my third day, I overheard the Caretaker gossiping about Olive. Apparently, when her last roommate died, she fell into a depression. She wouldn’t eat or leave the second floor for days. Unfortunately, I don’t think death is very uncommon here. What did you expect? A bunch of geriatrics in one facility; it certainly isn’t eternal life.

A doctor came in the other day to check in on Charlie. Instantly, Olive seemed to brace herself, running to her corner.

The two of them are inseparable. They never leave each other. The Caretaker, who cleans our space and brings us breakfast–the same thing every day-is the only outside contact we have on a regular basis.

It’s an understimulating life. I pass most of my time watching my roommates, but that’s not much entertainment. Maybe something will change around here. I hope.

* * *

Charlie’s condition has gotten progressively worse. He’s always been a little out of it, but recently, he’s become incontinent. Olive and I just deal with the smell because the bathroom reeks through our entire suite.

The Doctor has come twice this past week. He pays most attention to Charlie, and I can tell it makes Olive nervous.

* * *

Charlie was taken a few days ago. He hasn’t come back. One morning the Doctor came in, and Charlie left with him. Olive has been silent since. She sits from her corner, her eyes glazed over. Maybe she knew this was coming. Maybe that’s why she was so scared of the man.

I’ve looked for signs of Charlie–eavesdropping on conversations, studying the Caretaker’s facial expressions–but I’m at a loss. Obviously, he was sick, but he was kicking. Gosh, I’m saying “was” like he’s already gone. There’s still hope. At least that’s what I tell Olive. She doesn’t seem to hear me, though. She just stares.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t lonely. Charlie wasn’t much of a talker, but he was company. Now, with him gone, I feel like Olive’s gone too. My goal is to try to get her to warm up to me. As far as I can tell, Charlie isn’t coming back.

On a brighter note, the suite does smell much better.

* * *

Olive and I have gotten closer. We aren’t attached at the hip, but when things are slow, she'll nestle up next to me. She’s started eating more; she looks healthier. I enjoy her company. It’s nice knowing I’m not in this place alone. I get so little interaction with anyone else. I wonder how I haven’t gone insane. I think it’s having a buddy that’s grounded me.

The Doctor hasn’t been called since Charlie was taken.

* * *

Olive’s begun to sleep beside me at night. At first it was accidental–I’d wake, and she’d be near. But recently, it’s been deliberate. She trembles a little in her sleep, and sometimes her own sneeze will wake her up.

In the mornings, she’ll follow me to our empty bowls to wait for the Caretaker. As we eat, she’s constantly looking up, checking to make sure I’m still there. She’s clingy, but I’m starting to be too. We don’t have many friends in this place.

* * *

The Doctor came back this morning. Olive’s sneezing has gotten worse. I can’t read faces very well, but I don’t think the Doctor looks very happy. He took her out and down the hall. She came back 30 minutes later and stomped in frustration. Right after the visit, her sneezing seemed to be better–maybe once every ten minutes–but it’s back to normal. The Doctor said he’ll update us next week.

I can tell she’s struggling. Maybe she misses Charlie. I’ve heard that being sad can worsen your health. Whatever it is, I’m starting to worry.

* * *

The Doctor came back for the checkup. When he talked to the Caretaker, I saw her eyes start to mist. That can’t be a good sign.

Olive doesn’t seem okay. She’s stopped eating almost completely. Her back bone is more evident than ever, and she hiccups for air.

I hate to admit it, but it feels too similar to Charlie. I bet the Doctor will be back, and this time, he’s taking Olive with him.

* * *

I usually like being right, but not today. The Doctor came for Olive.

This place gets emptier and emptier. I hope someone new comes in. Will I be alone until it’s my turn to be taken?

The Caretaker cried when the Doctor left. She wept and wept, calling Olive her baby. How can you call someone your baby, whom you barely cared to know? I watched alone from Olive’s corner. She left five minutes later.

But I guess this is the life of a pet rabbit–or any pet for that matter. Seldom interesting, always alone. I wonder what life would be outside this cage.