02. The Girl Who Runs With Scissors
Scissors are pretty helpful. They trim anything, anyone into proper shapes, righting wrongs one cut at a time. Some even cut through bones, though it isn't necessary; most things are made of fluff.
The girl stared at the pair of scissors in her hand, solid steel and brass, almost too big for her grip. This was the fifth time she had tried getting into the suit. All her friends had done it; they slipped into the soft, padded uniform, graduating into sweet and fluffy Goodbunnies. But every time, her head refused to go through. Everyone looked at her in sympathy.
"There's something wrong with your head. Here, chop it off. People do that, you know?"
She backed away in horror, "No, no, no. I just have to try harder! I can do it, I promise!"
Still holding the scissors, she ran home, dragging the heavy suit behind.
After three days and nights of squeezing and tugging, she did it… for three seconds. Almost immediately, her eyes went black. The world spun. The walls closed in. The suit pressed from all sides, its fluff clogging her mouth, her nose… sweet, choking fluff. She screamed, but no sound came. Flailing on the floor, her fingers brushed something cold and sharp. Frantically, she jabbed the scissors into her neck. Fluff spilled out as she tore free from the bunny suit.
Panting, trembling. She put the ripped suit in a box underneath her bed, grabbed some paper, and started cutting. "If I can't wear the suit, maybe a mask is close enough? Still acceptable, right?"
From that day on, she became a myth. People are not sure what she is. "Is she us, or is she not?" She walks among the crowd with the bunny mask around her neck and the scissors in her hand. The mask makes her feel pretty; the scissors make her feel safe. Some say she's delusional, that it is unwise to be different. Some say she's brave; they wish they could bare themselves as she did. But she is neither.
She just wants to live.
Here, where the world is made of fluff.
