Henry's Rabbit

    Thunder rolled across the pitch-black sky as Henry stared up from his bedroom window. He longed to see a shooting star. He wished he could go back to the way his life was before the war. He remembered the endless nights he spent as a child staring at the stars and searching for planes. Now there were no stars to shed light; instead, he sat silently in a pitch-black room. Henry felt alone and scared, scared to close his eyes because he knew the nightmares that awaited him. Sometimes he wished he had never joined the army and never gone to war, and other times he still felt a sense of pride for serving his country.

    It was hard for Henry to balance the fear and pain he felt due to all the suffering he witnessed with his pride. How could he be proud when every time he closed his eyes, he had to relive the sight of his best friend and fellow soldier dying in his arms. Watching him bleed and suffer repeatedly and remaining helpless. How could he feel accomplished when images of innocent children in third-world countries being killed or losing loved ones as casualties of war flashed in his head every time he slept. What if that was his little brother? crying over his dead body? What if that was his sister, killed walking home from school? How was Henry supposed to live a normal life after everything he witnessed as a soldier? Especially since his mind wasn’t the only thing lost to the war. Henry looked over at the space where his left arm should have been, but all he saw was a stump at the end of his shoulder. His arm had been lost somewhere in the desert, blown off by an explosive device buried in the sand. He had no recollection of what happened between the explosion and waking up in a hospital with a missing arm, but he distinctly remembered the moment he realized he had lost the arm.

    He woke up in the bright hospital room, his vision slightly blurred for the first few minutes of walking. When his vision became focused, it took him a while to figure out where he was and what had happened. He remembered the explosion but nothing afterward, he assumed he had been taken back to base and then transported to a hospital. Looking around, he didn't notice anything unusual at first, that was until he tried to reach for a cup of water with his left arm. When he realized it was gone, he screamed, shocked, and scared he began to sob uncontrollably. What was he to do with only one arm?

    Hearing Henry’s sobs, a nurse came into his room to ask what was wrong.

    ‘My arm is gone,’ Henry sobbed.

    ‘You will be okay Mr. sfortunato,’ she told him in a soft, comforting tone.

    ‘What good am I with one arm,’ Henry asked her.

    ‘You’re plenty good sir, and besides, there is always a prosthetic arm,’ the nurse reassured him

    Henry didn't recall how long the nurse had stayed with him, only that at some point, the fear and the anger he had felt over the loss of his arm turned to an overwhelming numbness. He had no tears left to cry; he felt empty. Henry lay silently in his hospital bed; day in and day out, he remained silent and numb. Doctors and nurses came and went, checking machines and looking at his stump, but Henry never acknowledged them. A psychologist had come at some point, but Henry turned his back to him. He was not interested in taking things out, all he wanted was his arm back, and no amount of talking would ever make that happen.

    Two weeks after, when Henry was brought to the hospital, the hospital psychiatrist had an idea. She went to the children’s ward and found a little boy who was also missing an arm due to an accident, and incidentally was also named Henry. She brought the boy to Henry’s room; the child was carrying an old, grey stuffed animal. When the boy came in, Henry sat up in his hospital bed with a confused look.

    ‘Henry, this is Henry from the children’s ward. We call him Hank. He lost his arm in an explosion, just like you.’ the psychologist told him.

    ‘Hi Henry,’ Hank said in a cheerful, lively voice.

    ‘Hi,’ Henry replied hesitantly

    Henry had never had children of his own, he went into the army at eighteen, and since then, his focus has been on the army and the army only. He was the only twenty-two-year-old who had never gone on a date or been in a romantic relationship.

    ‘Look,’ Hank said, holding out the stump where his left arm used to be, ‘we are twins, the same arm missing.’

    Henry couldn't help but smile; Hank was an adorable little boy with beautiful brown hair and dark green eyes. ‘Yeah, that's cool, huh,’ Henry said, ‘same name and same arm was blown off.’

    ‘Are you sad,’ Hank asked, sitting in a chair next to Henry.

    ‘A little bit,’ Henry told him.

    Hank stood up and went over to Henry. He handed Henry the old stuffed animal he had been holding in his arm. ‘This is my rabbit,’ Hank told him, ‘He made me feel better when I was sad about my arm.’

    Henry looked at the beat-up stuffed rabbit; holding it in his hand gave him a sense of comfort. He handed the rabbit back to Hank.

     ‘He is adorable,’ Henry told Hank. 

    Hank wouldn't take the rabbit from Henry, ‘it’s yours now.’ 

    Henry’s eyes started to fill with tears, ‘But it’s your rabbit, Hank.’ 

    Hank shook his head, ‘it’s your rabbit now, Henry, I’m not sad anymore, but you are. You need him.’

    Henry cried, and Hank reached up and gave him a one-arm hug. ‘Thank you.’ Henry sobbed.

    Henry held that rabbit against his chest for the rest of the time he was in the hospital. When he left, he tried to give it back to Hank, but he refused to take it. Henry brought it home with him, and to this day, three years later, he sleeps with that rabbit every night and carries it in his backpack, keeping it with him every day. It is faded and worn, and maybe a little mishappen but, written clear as day on the animal’s tag, it reads, “Henry’s Rabbit.”