So here's a little blurp from one of my short stories called "Believe." The story is about a son asking his mom about Santa Claus. The story within the story is filled with flashbacks relating to Santa from the mother's childhood. One of her flashbacks include the Easter Bunny. Enjoy!
-The Death of the Easter Bunny-
Unlike Christmas, the other holidays fell short. The closest holiday to it was Easter and the Easter Bunny. The believability of one tiny bunny hopping to every house on Easter morning and hiding eggs and Easter baskets wore thin over the years. Sure, I believed in the Easter Bunny, but not as long as I believed in Santa.
We were on our way back from Easter Services at our church. There we sat in the backseat - me in my pink and yellow Easter dress, Tonya, buckled next to me, with her white tights and white shoes, and my brother, on the other side of me, with his neatly combed hair.
My mom hummed “He Lives!” as my dad tried to find a good radio station.
“Greg, watch out!” my mom yelled.
My dad swerved and that’s when I saw it. A tiny white bunny in the middle of the road. It was like it all happened in slow motion. That poor little creature didn’t stand a chance against our baby blue four-door Pontiac Bonneville.
“You killed the Easter bunny!” I screamed.
My dad kept driving.
Everyone grew quiet as I continued to scream.
“Honey,” my mom turned around, “that wasn’t the Easter bunny. It was a different bunny.”
“No, it wasn’t! It was the Easter bunny. Daddy killed the Easter bunny!” I cried.
My brother chuckled next to me, “Way to go dad. You killed the Easter bunny, and you crushed Christina’s heart. Two-fer! High five!” My brother’s hand hung in the air without a slap to conclude the act of success.
My mom pushed his hand down. “That’s enough!” She looked at me, “Don’t worry, you’ll see that the Easter bunny already visited our house and hid your baskets.” She looked at my dad, “Right, Greg?”
“Ahhh, shit,” my dad grumbled. That’s the only memory I have of my dad swearing in front of me. When we got home, my mom told us that we had to run around the house three times before we could go inside.
Tonya wasn’t happy about that, “But why? My feet hurt.”
“Because,” my mom said as she shoved my dad into the house, “you need to burn off all that energy before you search for your baskets that the Easter bunny hid inside the house.” She closed the door behind my dad. That year was the fastest I ever found my Easter basket. Easter was never the same after that year. My dad, my own dad, ran over the Easter Bunny.