A Lonely Street
By Phantasmagore

The moon shone coldly down on an aging neighborhood. The rotting buildings seemed suspended in time, waiting for the last of their paint to peel away as the outside world left them behind. Nothing disturbed the silence of the sleeping neighborhood, except for a few lonely footsteps.

Jack walked on the sidewalk alone, his stark white fur seeming to glow in the moonlight. He had already stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket to try to stifle it, but he could not cover his head. He hoped that nobody was still awake to see him. The rabbit continued with his stroll, passing by his childhood memories.

He had spent his entire life in this decrepit neighborhood, wasting away along with it. Although he hated to admit it, it was home to him. It was a part of his history, just as he was a part of its. Every crack, every imperfection, held a story.

There was Mr. Bayer’s house, squat and gloomy. Jack and his pack of troublesome friends used to dare each other to cross the yard and touch the nearest wall. The challenge was accepted once by a boastful hyena, but he never made it to the house. Mr. Bayer sprang from beneath the earth before he could get halfway across the yard, and then the irate mole dragged the hyena back to the sidewalk by his ears while chastising his accomplices. They all learned a valuable lesson in restraint that day, and they never disturbed the old mole again.

Jack remembered when he first heard about Mr. Bayer’s death. He had succumbed to a sudden illness. After his passing, his house was never sold to new occupants. Instead, it was left to rot with its owner, falling into a state of disrepair over the years. Now the children continue the tradition of daring one another to approach the building, but they tell stories of vengeful ghosts and curses rather than a lonely mole seeking peace. Every once in a while, though, Jack could swear he saw a familiar pair of beady eyes peering out at him through the windows as he walked past. There was nothing to see this time, however. The house was as cold and empty as the night.

Jack continued to wander. He passed the old willow tree that had provided him with a peaceful refuge from the chaos of his daily life. He had spent many afternoons within the tree’s embrace, protected from life’s worries by its leafy curtain. Its trunk was littered with the scars of past assaults from the neighborhood children. They had thrown stones at it, cut it with knives in the middle of their games, even attempted to fell it with an axe when they needed wood to build a fort. But no matter what they did to it, the tree stood strong, an unconquerable adversary.

Now its strength was gone, leaving behind a rotting husk. Its branches drooped lifelessly, their leaves decaying on the ground. Its trunk was splintering; soon it will topple over, adding one more corpse to the street’s history.

Jack stopped at an intersection. There was a small streak in the black asphalt, essentially undetectable unless you are looking for it. Once noticed, however, it was impossible to ignore. A small streak of red stained the road, faded by rain and courtesy attempts to clean the street. Jack could not look away from the blemish, becoming absorbed in his most unpleasant memory of this place.

He could still hear the roar of the engine and the squeals of tires. He still saw the glint of sunlight on the hood of the truck as it came barreling toward him. And he still felt the hard metal as it broke his body.

He woke up in the hospital, barely able to move a muscle. His entire body was filled with an unbearable pain. He was only awake for a few seconds before he lost consciousness again. He drifted in and out of consciousness, never really aware of what was going on around him. By the time he was coherent again, his injuries were gone and he was home.

Speaking of home, there it was. It was a simple building, with faded yellow paint and a neglected yard. Jack walked through the front door and silently padded down the hallway to his room. Laying down on his bed, he turned to stare at the paper that his mother had hung on the wall. The article that he read over and over until every word had been burned into his mind. His obituary.