my apartment that i moved out of one year ago...

"No one will hurt you anymore, sweetheart." Written on a power line tombstone just outside of my new apartment, this headline caught my attention immediately. A few meters away, blood stains a parking lot stall, reminding us of the violent end to her unnaturally urbanized life. I never knew her because I didn't move in until August; she was already dead.

A few days after I first started seeing the ads pleading for help, asking for any information, hoping for eyewitnesses, anything, I met my neighbour, Albert. He told me a buddy of his had died.. He wanted to show me where his buddy was killed, as he cried, in cold blood.

Turns out the "buddy" was actually a bunny (a soon-to-be frequent misunderstanding had taken place between Albert and I, with our perverse franglais). The previous dwelling of the victim: a small door leaned up against our vintage brick entryway.

To Albert, this was the most devastating event of the century; the most inhumane act humanly possible; the end to his dear friend’s candid life. To me, a sense of relief washed over. This was not another killing of a street person or prostitute that had perhaps lived in our foliage (I use the "our" for the building, as it now feels like my home, too).

The police had investigated, but with no surprise there was little more reprisal than a handful of paperwork, which I’m sure did little justice for Albert and the rest of his friends.

Although I never knew this rabbit, I feel like something was stolen from me. I wonder what it would have been like to have a bunny living at my building’s entrance, waiting for some scraps of bread or looking for friends in her concrete palace. And each time I ponder the idea of having a rabbit living outside in such circumstance, far from a natural habitat, I think to myself: but isn’t that dangerous? I guess so.