Bunny in the attic: a Polycule of Doom by Saywhat13

(Sematary's POV)

Man, the bass was thumping in my chest like a damn freight train. "Bloody Angel" was only halfway through, crowd going nuts, lights flashing all red and black like some horror flick. I'm spitting mid-verse, voice all scratched up, bunny ears flopping around:

I'm the reaper in the bunny suit, blood on my paws, no escape—

Lights just… cut out. Not a flicker—bam, gone. Air gets heavy, like I'm breathing through a wet rag. Mic dies, silence slams in hard. Bass slows to this gross, sludgy hum, like the speakers are choking on mud. Floor feels tilted, but it's not—it's all in my head, wrong as hell.

I look down. Shadows are splitting. One becomes two, then three. One of 'em twitches, reaches up, grabs my ankle—cold.

I kick wild, but it's like swatting fog. It yanks me down hard.

World flips. Not like falling off stage—more like getting sucked inside out. Gut twists, ears ringing like alarms, vision blurs into static crap: Berlin on fire, some girl with dark hair, a stupid mustache, diary pages flipping like scared birds. Then—nothing.

Smack. Face plants on wood. Dust chokes me, smells like old books and panic.

I blink hard. Ears flop down over my eyes. There's a girl—small, eyes huge—peeking from behind some suitcases.

"Who the fuck are you?" I groan, shoving up, dusting off the bunny fur.

She freezes, looks around quickly, like there might be traps. "Shh! Who are you? How'd you even get up here?" Whisper-yell, accent all Dutch-y, but her English is solid.

I fix my ears, chains jingling like keys. "Sematary. Dropped in from… future. 2025. California. Your turn."

Her eyes narrow. "Anne. That's bullshit. We're hidden. Doors locked tight, stairs pulled up. You a spy? Or just nuts?"

I laugh low, scratchy. "Nuts, probably. Not spying. Was on stage one sec, poof, here. Portal or glitch or some crap." I look around—attic's tight, junk everywhere, suitcases, books, crappy beds. "Hiding from Nazis, right?"

She goes white. "Yeah. Years now. If they catch us…" She trails off, arms tight around herself. "Get out. Before noise brings 'em."

"Out? Wish I knew how. Don't even get how I'm here." I tug the suit. "And this? Not sneaky."

She stares at the ears. "Why the hell a bunny? Looks dumb."

"Stage shit. Rapper. Horrorcore vibe—spooky as fuck." I grin. "You into music?"

"Music? Can't blast a radio here." Her eyes soften, though. "I write stuff. Stories, poems."

"Sick. Lyrics for me. Dark as hell."

She starts to say something else—freezes. Footsteps. Boots climbing.

Door busts open. Gestapo swarm in like a pack of rabid wolves, boots pounding, guns up, the room instantly filled with shouts and the stench of fear. The attic explodes into chaos. Anne's father barely gets to his feet before they're on him—one wrenches his arms behind his back so hard you hear the shoulder pop, another smashes the butt of a rifle into his mouth, teeth spraying across the floor like dice. He gurgles, blood bubbling at his lips, but they don't stop—two men drag him away, his feet scrabbling for purchase, leaving a crimson streak on the floorboards1.

Anne's mother is screaming, voice raw, but an officer grabs her by the hair and flings her into the wall. Her head hits with a sickening thud; she slides down, dazed, blood smearing behind. Her sister tries to run, but a black-gloved fist catches her by the collar and yanks her back so violently her neck snaps with a crack that rings through the attic, and she crumples, twitching.

I feel Anne clutch my arm, nails digging so deep I might bleed through the fur. She's shaking all over, breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps. I want to say something, anything, but my throat is locked tight.

The dentist, old and rail-thin, tries to shield his wife, but they drag her off by her ankles, head bouncing on every step down the stairs. He lunges after her and gets stomped down hard—boots to the ribs, the sound of bones breaking like branches underfoot, his screams quickly swallowed by fists and rifle stocks.

Peter, barely older than Anne, tries to fight. He gets a gun barrel across the face—nose shattered, blood jetting out, his eyes wild with pain. They force his head down, grinding his cheek against the filthy attic boards until splinters embed in his skin and blood pools beneath his jaw.

All around, people are begging, praying, cursing. It doesn't matter. The Gestapo work methodically, breaking fingers, slamming heads into the wall, stripping watches and wedding rings as they go. They laugh when someone pisses himself. One tears up a hidden photograph, spitting on it before lighting it on fire and tossing the burning scrap at the feet of its owner.

Anne is next. They rip her away from me, one fist tangled in her hair, dragging her so hard that clumps come loose. She tries to kick, to claw, but they backhand her across the mouth—her lip splits, blood splattering onto her nightgown. She shrieks, a high, animal sound, and then clamps down, biting her own wrist to keep from crying out more.

I try to move—anything—but a rifle butt catches me in the gut, and I double over, vomiting, snot and bile streaming down my face. A boot comes down on my hand, crunching two fingers. I howl, vision tunneling, tears and blood mixing on my face, the world spinning.

The attic fills with the sounds of brutality: the wet slap of flesh, the dull crack of bone, the metallic tang of blood heavy in the air. The Gestapo stomp out, dragging bodies—some limp, some struggling, all broken. The stairs echo with the chaos, the attic left behind reeking of violence, shame, and loss.

Anne is thrown back beside me, sobbing, her face already bruising, hair torn out in patches, blood drooling down her chin. I pull her into my lap, rocking her as she shakes, the two of us huddled in the aftermath, breathing the dust and the stink of terror.

I can't protect her. I can't protect anyone. All I can do is hold her, whisper "I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry," as the screams fade, replaced by a silence so thick it feels like drowning.Short guy—mustache, eyes like black pits—halts. Stares. "You," he snaps. "What are you?" I fix my ears again, but my hands shake, fingers still throbbing from the earlier crunch under that boot, a phantom ache that shoots up my arm like electric shocks. Every clink of my chains echoes the rifle butts slamming down, the wet cracks replaying in my skull. "Sematary. California. 2025." Head tilts. "Rabbit costume." "Yeah. Stage look." He laughs—a quick bark. "A rabbit." I shrug, but it feels forced, my shoulders tight like they're braced for another yank, another fall through the void. The raid's screams linger in my ears, a tinnitus of terror that drowns out reason. "Wards off demons." Another laugh. "Demons. Good." He waves a hand. "Leave these. Girl and rabbit." Chains rattle on. Shackled to a radiator, the metal biting cold against my wrists, reminding me of the iron grip that dragged bodies away, leaving blood streaks I can still smell under the dust. Door slams shut, the bang like a gunshot, making me flinch hard, heart slamming against ribs like it's trying to escape the cage of my chest.

Anne hisses, "Gonna get us shot." Her voice cracks, eyes darting wild, pupils blown from fear trauma's cocktail. She's huddled small, nails digging into her palms, fresh scabs from biting her wrist earlier cracking open. I grin, but it's brittle, masking the nausea churning in my gut, visions of teeth spraying like confetti flashing behind my eyes. "Nah. Just crashed the party. Wrong spot, wrong era. Bad remix." She stares. "Bunny suit. Really?" "Whole thing—chains, spikes, fake blood. Mostly fake." She blinks. "Blood?" The word hangs, and her face pales further, lips trembling as if tasting the copper from her split lip, the one from the backhand that still swells her cheek. I dig out a joint, fingers fumbling—nerves shot, hands unsteady like after a bad drop, but this ain't stage fright; it's the echo of vomit and bile from the gut punch, the helplessness of watching bodies break.

"You got… weed?" "Always." I light it, flame flickering unsteadily in my grip. Smoke swirls sweet, cutting dust, but it can't mask the metallic tang still heavy in the air, a ghost of the brutality. Hit, pass. She takes a soft pull, coughing weakly, tears streaming not just from the burn but from the dam breaking inside—sobs she swallows, body rocking subtly like she's still being shaken. "Better?" She hands it back, eyes teary, red-rimmed from more than smoke; they're haunted, replaying her mother's thud against the wall, the crimson smear she can't unsee. "Strong. How are you chill? They took my fam." Her voice fractures on "fam," a whisper-scream, knees drawn up tight as if to shield the hollow ache in her chest where family used to be.

I exhale long, smoke clouding my vision like the static from my glitch-drop, but it doesn't blur the flashbacks: Peter's nose shattering, blood jetting, his wild eyes mirroring my own buried panic. "Chill? Freaking internally. Panic's useless. Dealt with rowdier pits." But my words ring hollow; inside, it's a storm, breaths shallow, muscles coiled for a fight that never comes, the weight of failure pressing like the boot on my hand. "Rowdier than Nazis?" Half mad, half scared—her laugh chokes into a gasp, hands clutching her arms where bruises bloom from the rip-away grip, nails leaving new marks over old. Quiet chuckle from me, but it's forced, throat tight like it's still locked from the howl I let out earlier.

"Pits? Yeah, mosh gets crazy. This? Next level. You holding up?" Knees to chest, she shakes her head, rocking faintly, eyes unfocused as if staring into the abyss of loss, whispers of "Mama... Peter..." escaping like leaks from a cracking facade. "No. Duh. You sound… otherworldly." "Am. 2025. Pocket phones, music nonstop, wars with drones. Your tale? Huge. School stuff." Her eyes go big, but shadowed with doubt, the spark dimmed by the fresh scars on her soul. "My tale?" "Diary. Hiding. Symbol of hope or whatever. But brutal. Holocaust. Millions gone." She pales, whispers, "We lose?" Her breath hitches, a sob caught, body trembling as the raid's chaos replays—sister's neck snap echoing in her bones.

I nod. "Nazis crash. But damage done. Bad." She stares at the floor, fingers tracing invisible patterns, perhaps the blood trails she saw, her mind a loop of horror. "You here to save?" I snort, but it catches, guilt twisting as the gut punch is revisited. "Me? Accident. Beat drop fail. But maybe hang, rap at Hitler." Tiny smile, cracked fractures too, lips quivering, a fleeting escape from the numbness settling in. "Rap?" "Music. Poetry, fast, mad." "Show." I clear my throat, go low: "Attic chains, Nazi games, bunny in the flame…" But my voice wavers, the lyrics hitting too close, evoking the flames I glimpsed in my drop—Berlin burning, now fused with real screams.

She giggles—a real one, but it dissolves into tears, hand clamping over her mouth to stifle the mix of hysteria and grief. "Sucks." "Yeah. Real, though." Smoke hangs. Sweet. Off. "Future's worse, kid," I say. "Than you imagine." She nods, passes the joint, her touch lingering a second too long, seeking anchor in the storm raging inside her. "Then tell me more. About the future. "Tell me… this future." Mouth half-open to dump more future crap—social media hell, dumb memes, melting ice—when the door creaks again, slower, more careful. One set of footsteps. Not the boot-stomp from before. Hitler strolls in. No entourage. Uniform sharp, but eyes look beat, like he hasn't slept. He sniffs the weed haze, nose wrinkling. "What is that smell?" he grumbles, accent heavy, then flips to English easily, like he figures we'll catch it. Joint pinched between my fingers, I freeze, the scent now tainted with fear-sweat, my mind screaming echoes of "I'm sorry" from the aftermath. Anne turns to stone, face ghost-white, a tremor running through her like aftershocks from the raid's quake. Smoke just… lingers, mocking us. He steps closer, eyes bouncing from her to me—stuck on ears, chains, whole furry chaos. "Rabbit. You again." "Yeah," I say, forcing cool. Voice holds, but heart's pounding like drums, the chains a reminder of shackled powerlessness. "Me again." He glances sharply at Anne, then back at me like she's extra. "Tell me… about this future." Anne shoots me a look full of "don't" and panic, her fingers twitching, nails bloody from digging into skin—a self-inflicted anchor against the unraveling. I stub the joint on the floor, trying to play it casual, but my hand shakes, the motion stirring dust and dread. "Future? What part? Flying cars or nukes?" No laugh. Head tilted like a puzzled dog. "You said 2025. California. What is it like?" I lean back toward the wall, chains jingling, each sound an echo of bones breaking. Anne bores holes through me with her stare, but hey, I'm already chained—trauma's chains tighter than metal, binding us both in this nightmare loop. Spill beans? Why not. "Sit. It's wild." He doesn't sit. Arms fold. "Speak." "World's linked. Phones do all"—I mime one, hand unsteady—"talk global, see wars, history. You tank. Allies smash Berlin, Reich dust." His jaw clenches. Eyes slit. "Lies." "Nope. Post-you fact. Holocaust? Evil legend. Millions. You're the movie villain." Anne whispers, "Stop," her voice a rasp, body shrinking as if his presence reignites the fire of loss, tears welling unbidden. But she's glued, transfixed in horror's grip. He paces short. "Costume? Why?" "Bunny? Stage. Rap. Horror—ghosts, graves, blood. Fans eat it." The word "blood" hangs, and I wince internally, flashes of real sprays haunting me. "Music." He stops. "I paint." "Yeah? Dope. Mine's loud. Mean." I nod at Anne. "She writes. Creators, us." He looks at her—properly. "Girl. Write?" She nods slightly, but her chin trembles, the act costing her, mind fractured by the day's shards. "Diary. Stories." "Of?" "This. Hide. Life." Her words come soft, but laced with pain, each syllable a step through minefields of memory. "Hmm. Siege life." He looks back at me. "Future strong? Pure?" I snort, but it chokes, guilt and dread mixing. "Pure? Mess. Mixed. Global peeps. Wars on tech, though. AI. Space." "AI?" "Smart machines. Think." His eyes spark, odd. "Think machines." "Yeah. LikTech wars Crazy." He stands there, chewing on it. Then, snap: "Stay. Both." He heads for the door. Pauses. "Tomorrow, more." Click. Shut. The sound reverberates, a trigger that makes Anne jolt, breath escaping in a gasp. Anne breathes shakily. "You told him everything." Her hands clutch her dress, knuckles white, the interaction reopening wounds barely scabbed. I shrug, but my shoulders ache from tension. "Curious dude. Alive still." She stares. "Insane." "Probs." I relight the stub, flame dancing erratically. "Hit?" She takes it, coughs hard—first-timer vibes, lungs not ready for the fire, but it's a distraction from the inferno inside, coughs turning to quiet sobs. Smoke curls up lazily, mixing with the attic dust like some forbidden ritual. Hitler's bootsteps fade down the stairs, leaving just the echo of his weird energy hanging in the air, amplifying our shared fractures. Anne hands the stub back, eyes watering but sharper now, like the weed's kicking in her brain fog—temporary balm over the abyss. "Insane," she repeats, but softer this time, almost to herself, voice hollowed by exhaustion and grief. She's staring at the door like it might swing open again any second, body tensed for the swarm that never fully leaves her mind. "You just... talked to him. Like he's some guy at a party." I shrug, leaning my head back against the cold wall. Chains clink like a bad beat drop, each note a reminder of immobility, of watching horror unfold. "Party? Nah, this is more like a nightmare set. But yeah, dudes like him—power trips, ego black holes. Seen 'em in the industry. Labels, managers, all mustache-twirling villains without the 'stache." But my words feel distant, my mind replaying the dentist's ribs snapping, my own fingers pulsing in sympathy.

She shifts closer, knees still hugged tight, but her shoulders drop a bit—false ease, her body a map of twitches and flinches. The high mellowing her edges, but not the core ache. "Industry? Like... factories?" "Music biz. Labels sign you, squeeze the art out, toss the husk. But future's got perks—streams, fans global. Your diary? It's viral in my time. Books, movies, and schools force-feed it. 'Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl.' Icon shit." Her face twists—half awe, half horror, but underscored by a vacant stare, as if fame can't touch the void left by her family's drag-away screams. Viral? Like a disease?" "Kinda. Spreads fast online. The Internet is this web connecting everything. Post a thought, boom, the world sees. Memes of cats, wars live-streamed, my tracks blasting from pockets." She blinks slowly, processing, but her eyelids flutter erratically, fatigue warring with adrenaline's remnants. "And me? In that world?" "Symbol. Hope in hell. But real—your words cut deep. Loneliness, fear, but sparks of joy. Like my lyrics: graves and ghosts, but beats to dance on 'em." Quiet stretches. Outside, distant shouts, maybe trucks rumbling—Nazi night ops, each sound a jolt that makes her wince, body curling tighter. Attic feels smaller, walls pressing in like the claustrophobia of hiding amplified by fresh terror. She glances at my suit shyly, fingers twitching like she wants to touch the fur but won't—hesitation born of touch turning violent earlier. "Why a bunny, though? Really?" she asks, voice dropping low, a whisper to avoid echoes that might summon more boots. "Not a wolf or... something fierce?" I chuckle, scratchy from the smoke, but it catches in my throat, dry and pained. "Bunny's twisted. Cute outside, killer in. Like life—fluffy till it bites. Plus, crowds lose it. Mosh to 'Grave House,' bunny ears flopping in the pit." "Mosh?" "Chaos dance. Bodies slamming, energy raw. Therapeutic as fuck." But the word "slamming" makes me pause, visions of heads against walls intruding. She nods, eyes distant, unfocused as if lost in her own mosh of memories. "Sounds... free. We're trapped here. Years. No slamming, just whispers." Her voice trails, a sigh laced with despair, hands pressing against her chest like holding in the fragments. I pass the stub back—almost cashed. "Freedom's relative. Future's got cages too—screens, likes, algorithms deciding your worth. But yeah, mosh is escape." She inhales shallow, holds it, exhales like a sigh, but it shudders out, body quaking subtly from the day's toll. "Tell me more. About music. Yours." "Alright, kid. Mine's horrorcore—dark rap. Beats like thunder, words like knives. Track called 'Chainsaw Man': 'Rev it up, blood spray, forest grave, no pray.' Fans scream it back, masks on, vibes apocalyptic." But reciting it stirs unease, the lyrics too close to the real blood spray I witnessed, stomach turning. Her lips twitch—tiny smile, but it falters, eyes glazing with unshed tears. "Poetic. Darker than my stuff. I write about flowers sometimes. Or boys." "Boys? Spill." She blushes faintly under the grime, but it's fleeting, overshadowed by a wince—Peter's name evoking his shattered face, a sob she bites back. "Peter. In the annex. Sweet, but... complicated." "Annex? This the Secret Annex?" "Yeah. Frank family, van Pels. Dentist too. Tight quarters, fights over nothing." Her words rush, then slow, voice cracking on "family," the loss fresh and raw. "Sounds like tour bus hell. Band drama, but with Nazis outside." She laughs—quiet, but real. First full one, yet it dissolves into a cough, then silence, her face crumpling momentarily before she rebuilds the mask."Tour bus?" "Big ride, cities to cities. Blunts, beats, breakdowns." The joint dies. I flick it away. Silence again, but easier now—superficially, undercurrents of shared shattered psyches swirling. Her eyes droop, high settling in, but lids twitch with unrest. "You think we get out?" she whispers, voice small, laced with dread's tremor. I pause. History says no—for her. But me? Glitch in, glitch out? The weight crushes, guilt for surviving the mental maelstrom while she drowns. "Dunno. But if I'm stuck, might as well remix this era. Bunny vs. Reich." She curls up, head on knees, body a fetal shield against the world. "Remix?" "Twist it new. Better." As she drifts—exhaustion plus weed—I stare at the ceiling cracks, mind fracturing along them: Allies coming, too late; Hitler's bunker end. But spilling more? Risky. Butterfly effect or whatever. The knowledge burdens, a trauma of foresight amid the ruins. Door creaks—again? Heart jumps, adrenaline spiking like the raid's onset, body tensing for phantoms. But no steps. Wind? Ghost? Nah, probably nothing. Yet the creak lingers, a trigger in the quiet. Anne mumbles sleepily: "Thanks... for the future talk," her words slurred, but tinged with a fragile gratitude amid the wreckage. "No prob. Sleep. I'll watch." But watching means vigilance over shadows, my own mind a battlefield of echoes—screams, snaps, silences that scream louder. Trauma weaves through us, invisible chains binding tighter than the radiator's hold.