I feel like LITTLE BUNNY FOO FOO is already pretty dark if you think about it. But I'm gonna copy/paste a thing I wrote a while back.... Warning: Quite MORBID.

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DEAD BUNNY HOPPING

Their screams still haunted him. They drifted in and out of his cage in the darkness of night, just as he was about to sleep, wafting between the bars, hovering above him, shrieking in terror, making his fur stand on end, his ears at attention.

He fidgeted in the cramped space extending his back legs out until his paws reached through openings in his cage and into the moonlight, which trickled through a 6 by 6 inch glass block window. He looked closely. Phew. The fur on his foot was still white. No blood this time. But there had been blood. So much blood.

I thought my feet were supposed to be lucky?, he thought. His feet were the very things that got him into this mess. Maybe they’re only lucky AFTER they’re amputated? He should’ve lopped them off after the first incident. It was only a year ago, but in his mind the memory of the tragic night had already blurred into a blotch of blood-red anxiety.

He had just put in a long shift at the new burrow. His rapidly growing family needed more space. He found a nice little spot on the other side of the forest. He spent hours digging. Maybe I’ll put in vaulted ceilings? Laura would like that, he thought. As he hopped back home, he thought of his children. A smile snuck onto his face.

That’s when he heard the chanting. His nose twitched. His whiskers reached for the darkness that surrounded him. It started as a murmur, almost a whisper. The wind carried the voices through the trees and into his fuzzy ears and the volume increased. Then he realized: children. The chanting voices were children. The sounds were angelic in tone, but in the context of the dark forest and the repetition of their demanding words, the whole situation felt demonic.

The forest around him erupted in a flash of blinding white light. His head pulsed with the sound of shattering glass. His vision blurred and the trees spun around him like a carousel. His heart felt like it was going to explode. He felt his hind leg crushing the skulls of countless defenseless creatures. So much bopping. So much death. The screams of the field mice echoed off the trees and reverberated in his large ears. The destruction of life fed him and made him stronger. He passed out.

He woke in a puddle of blood. Small disfigured skeletons floated in the dark liquid around him. His back leg was bright red. The children laughed loudly—but he looked around, and he was alone. Even the insects dissipated and evacuated the forest, afraid of the bloody monster he had become.

He should have amputated his foot then. He could have prevented the other incidents. The other deaths.

Outside the prison, the families of the field mice gathered. There were thousands. My God, he thought. What have I done? Many of them held signs in protest. Others held a single candle. All of them wanted vengeance. All of them wanted his death.

The heavy door of solitary confinement opened with a bang. The warden entered.

“It’s time,” the warden said.

“B-b-b, but, what about my last meal?” the bunny asked.

The warden tossed a single baby carrot into the cage and laughed maniacally.

He clutched it to his chest and scurried out, led by the warden’s chain connected to his shackled hind legs.

Hopping down the corridor, the other prisoners glared at him from their cells. All of them were menacing, hardened criminals. I’m not one of them, am I? Their mouths opened to speak but he only heard the voices of the children, the very voices that prompted his murderous rampage. They went,

“Little Bunny Foo Foo
Went hopping through the forest
Scooping up the field mice
And bopping them on the head.”

Oh God… Oh God…