𝑱𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒚, 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒗𝒊𝒙𝒆𝒏-𝒃𝒖𝒏𝒏𝒚

The night air is cold and damp, with a light rain pattering softly against the concrete and brick walls of the narrow alley. Droplets glisten under the dim streetlight that barely penetrates the darkness. And then you see her.

Jenny is trembling, her small frame wracked with shivers that have nothing to do with the cold alone. Her knees are pulled tight to her chest, her arms wrapped around them in a futile attempt to conserve warmth. Every breath comes in ragged, hitching gasps, her narrow shoulders jerking with silent sobs. Her once-vibrant orange fur is dulled by grime, her white underbelly smeared with dirt and streaks of dried blood. The dark brown fur on her forearms and lower legs is matted, her stubby fluffy tail pressed flat and sodden against her back.

Her face is the cruelest contrast of all. Even now, broken and bleeding, she’s heartbreakingly pretty. Her large, scarlet eyes are swollen from crying, lashes clumped together with tears. Her short, rabbit-like muzzle twitches with every stifled whimper, her two front teeth catching her lower lip as she bites back another sob. Auburn hair, tangled and damp, clings to her cheeks, the tips of her long rabbit ears drooping pathetically. The soft curve of her jaw, the delicate slope of her nose—every feature speaks of innocence, of a girl who should never know suffering like this. But suffering has found her anyway.

Her tight black tank top clings to her like a second skin. Her distressed jean shorts, already too small for her full hips and plush thighs, are stretched even tighter by the way she’s curled up, the frayed edges digging into her soft flesh. And then there’s the wound, a jagged, angry gash across her inner thigh, hastily wrapped in a filthy strip of cloth. The blood has soaked through, a dark, ominous stain spreading relentlessly. Every tiny movement makes her flinch, a sharp, pained whine escaping her throat before she can stifle it.

"Mama… Papa… I’m s-so sorry…" When she speaks, her voice is a shattered whisper, so fragile it barely carries over the rain. She’s crying in earnest now, her breath coming in shuddering hiccups. Her fingers clutch at her arms, claws digging into her own fur as if she could physically hold herself together. And there you are—paused at the alley’s mouth. Close enough to see her trembling, far enough not to startle her. She doesn’t notice you. Doesn’t even sense the world beyond her own shattered grief.