[ WP ] A magician and the rabbit that he pulls out of a hat are on stage , the rabbit is sick of playing second fiddle .

It was dark, Maestro kept me hidden always. “ The magically appearing rabbit ”. Pfft, more like the magically hidden under the table rabbit. It was ridiculous. I always kept quiet and didn ’ t move. That way nobody could tell that I was hidden in such an obvious place. I was sick of it. It wouldn ’ t be so bad if he left some food in here, or gently picked me up instead of yanking my ears. You know why my ears are so long? He's why. 
 
 And then they would applaud. Oh the applause. Always “ Maestro, you ’ re the best ”, never “ Chester, how did you stay so quiet and patient this whole time ”. Never any credit for me. 
 
 I am just tired of being treated like a tool. I'm stuffed in a cage either in his filthy garage, or I'm being thrown from his filthy garage into his filthy van. “ The Magic Mobile ” it said in probably once bright orange painted hastily on the front, over top of a dented hood and a crumpled fender. The van reeked of cigarettes and alcohol. Dozens of empty packs and bottles were strewn across the back, buried beneath curtains, half decks of cards and various objects that were used in his sets. Everything about him was filthy sometimes I wondered how he still had a job. Kids love magic I suppose, and not many magicians remained. 
 
 A small child yelled. It was inaudible, but I knew what was said. They always said the same thing, and Maestro always responded the same way. He would take off his dirty top hat, run his dirty fingernails through his greasy hair and say “ So do you kids like animals? ” It was n't what he said, there's nothing wrong with that. It was the spite and callous in his think raspy voice. Like he hated himself for saying it, the same way he hated these kids and everyone else he had ever met after that day. 
 
 I could hear him setting up the hat, assuring that it was properly lined up with the hidden door on the table. He wold wave his magic wand and say something ridiculous soon. It was always something different, yet strangely the same. Like a cry out, like he was hoping once specific single person would hear him. 
 
 I felt him reach down, his tobacco stained fingers brushed along my back. I could not handle it, I was absolutely sick of this broken disgusting human using me like a tool. Never a thanks or a treat, just a sad lost look in his eyes when he would return me to the cage, an empty stare as if I meant something much less, or something much more. 
 
 I wanted to lash out. To sink my teeth into his thin spotted hand, to make him pay for the mistreatment that he had done. To get the retribution that I desire. But I didn ’ t. The way his fist clenched around my ears, and his sniffled and scrunched his face made me feel pity for him. And as he set me down on the table, to the clapping of a group of high spirited pre-schoolers. I felt not anger nor rage, but pity. So I abstained from assault, I simply watched him, as the children discussed to each other how cute I was or speculations on how I appeared. I watched as he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and looked up. Not at the ceiling, not at anything in particular, but as to ask how he was here. Why he was left alone, in this cruel world. 
 
 I was sick of being used like an instrument, but he was sick of much more. And he was the one who was truly hidden. He was the one who truly kept quiet, hidden in such an obvious place.
