Sleepwalk
Every night that summer, Jane watched Mia walk barefoot down the dirt path that broke through the woods behind their yards. She’d read somewhere that you’re not supposed to wake sleepwalkers, so she never intervened. Mia would always come back anyway, her hair and bedclothes streaked with mud.
Jane felt better about her days spent bagging groceries and avoiding eye contact with anyone she’d graduated with, knowing that Mia, who was popular and well-liked, was also not going to house parties or vacationing somewhere more glamorous than their hometown.
The night before Jane was leaving for college, Mia appeared on the lawn below her room. Her head hung slack, and she held something at her side that bucked and writhed against her grip. Jane slid open her window.
“Hey, are you awake?”
Illuminated by a motion sensor light, Mia lofted a large brown rabbit above her head and snapped its neck. Blood spattered across her face, and her dark irises eclipsed the whites of her eyes. As she laid the carcass on the grass, her open mouth convulsed as though with soundless laughter.
Jane jerked awake at her sunlit window. There was no sign that anyone had been in the backyard. She checked Mia’s socials, scanning the comments on her last post.
“I can’t believe you’re gone. The world has lost a shining star.”
“Your in our hearts forever.”
“Missing you never gets easier. Love you Mia!!!”
The most recent condolences were from a month ago.
Jane’s mom called up the stairs to her. Was she ready to go? Did she pack everything? They weren’t turning around if she forgot something. Jane unzipped her suitcase, and among her books and neatly folded clothes lay the bloody rabbit, its fur ruffling in the breeze from the open window.