Chapter Text
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…” His audience draws to a hush, the angels fall silent. The show has begun.
“That saved a wretch like me…” Something fills Paul’s chest; bright and airy and thrumming with power. It rises and pools in his mouth, it burns like communion wine and soothes like milk, coating every syllable of song in hypnotic, divine energy. It’s cold.
“I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see…”
The first stanza leaves his lips, high and smooth and overpowering the stillness of the night. Paul watches the rabbit intently, waiting for any movement or indication of life, of this power the angels say he has, hoping that he can actually save it, that he can actually do something good-
-and then he finds it. The animal’s back paw twitches, the movement strangely fluid. Paul gasps with delight- but keeps singing. It’s incredible- something that can’t be expressed through the spoken word alone. It must be sung, and Paul is the one who must sing it.
(ohyesohyesohyes)
Some small instinct in the back of his mind tells him he has to continue, or all will be for naught. The song continues, as if a spool of thread in his throat is being unwound, pulled though his mouth by some unseen hand.
The rabbit twitches again, and again- and then, with a fluid lurch, a twist of the ribs- it swivels itself upright and crouches on all fours.
Paul gasps again; the song stutters. Something chitters with displeasure in his ear at the error, but the boy is too excited to hear. He’s done it-! He’s actually done it! It looks… it looks… well, it’s just so still.
He stares at it in dismay, but keeps singing. He has to. The wind carries his quiet hymn, ruffling the animal’s fur. He mentally wills it to move, to sniff around, to eat the grass or- something normal rabbits do!
Slowly, gently, almost imperceptibly in the dim light, the puppet bends to its prophet’s ineffable will.
It moves.
The thing that is no longer a rabbit glides toward Paul with a gait like oil on polished marble; a languorous grace that might have seemed natural on a wildcat or fox.
Behind the glassy eyes, swollen with infection, the boy finds no trace of the primal fear it would have carried in life; no vigilant twitch of the ears nor tension of the haunches.
This creature feels no need to flee.
A maggot falls to the grass from the basin of its ear, glistening like a dropped pearl in the fluorescent halo of the streetlight. It doesn’t seem to care anymore.
The angels hum in glee, a soaring chorus of song. (the street is now a chapel is a stage is a pulpit is an inundation of OUR holy flood), they harmonise, and Paul must perform.
The creature moves as if the dead rabbit’s hide had been peeled away and wrapped perfectly around some other animal’s meat- a seamless, skin-tight costume. It is successfully learning the dance- just a few more steps, just a little more, Paul, show it what it needs to do. Show it what it will be.
And then its mouth twists, fragile facial bones grinding together in dead flesh, contorting itself into something a rabbit- a true rabbit- would never have been able to—
-and it sings, harmonizing perfectly along with Paul, who’s frozen in terror, unable to stop. And he’s scared, and he wants Mama, and the song unraveling in his chest is too big and too bright and wonderful and terrible and it’s too much, he can’t do this—
(where are you going---
He cries out in fear, something sharp and ugly and discordant, and the angels hiss and spit with outrage as the song shatters. The rabbit slumps to the pavement- boneless, a puppet with its strings cut.
Its unwilling puppet master takes a shuddering gulp of air, frozen in shock.
(nonononoNO you have ruined it paul you have destroyedshattered the overture ruined it ruinedruinedruined how can you do this to US)
Paul clutches at his hair, his throat, his eyes- a desperate bid to rid himself of the angels flocking and swarming, thrumming along the delicate cord of his vagus nerve, burrowing under his skin, lapping the moisture from his cornea.
The air around his face feels like wet cement- thick and caustic, trying to trap him, to seal him in place. Turned outward, the glassy eye of the crumpled little corpse stares directly into him- a silent, baleful accusation.
Why did you do this, Paul? Why? Why?
He can’t withstand its glare. Shoulders shaking as he gasps for breath, Paul tries to run- his legs buckle under the pressure and he collapses, scraping his knee against the sidewalk. Blood smears on the concrete. He whimpers in pain.
This isn’t what he meant to happen- he only wanted to help the rabbit, but he did something wrong- it wasn’t a rabbit at all. At least, not anymore. Maybe he did it right, technically, but- it wasn’t good.
Paul… Paul just did something wicked, something that went against everything the Bible teaches. He doesn’t remember the right word- but it’s against the Rules, forbidden.
An abomination against God.
(ruinedruinedruinedspitefullittlewretchWEcangiveyouwhatyouwantifonlyyoulisten)
He puts his head in his hands and sobs, his little body trembling with the force of it. His viola rises in panic, trembling right along with him.
He hated it, and Mama and Papa would hate it, and these things singing in his ears can’t be angels at all but demons wanting to turn him to evil, and this God is bad, and He wanted Paul to do his unholy, horrific work, so Paul is bad too, and- and-
Paul screams, and a nearby streetlamp explodes in a shower of broken glass and sparks.
The boy whips his head up and stares at it in alarm, his wide, teary eyes tracking the embers as they fizzle out. The strings snap to an abrupt halt.
(suchpowerifonlyyouwouldjointhedancejointhedance)
Paul doesn’t want to. He shakily stands, unsteady as a newborn foal, and starts to make his way back to the hospital. Perhaps there’s some way to make this go away- some way to fix him.
He doubts it.