First Hunt
He had tile green calzone tugged in his high lacquered boots, he wore a dark beige vest and a hunting cap over his meticulously gelled hair. He gripped a long, beautiful rifle strapped over his shoulder as he stood over the hanged trophies of animals in his father’s vast gallery. They were all so magnificent; tigers and gorillas from Africa, bears and wolves from Russia, cougars from America, caught in a ferocious moment of absolute. A great hand to take them down, and the greatness flows through heritage, or so they say. He walks out with a loud click of his boots. He is only 16. This is his first hunt.
He eases himself on the saddle and takes off with the other hunters. The dogs are sprinting in front, whetting their mouths. As they enter the thick forest area they slow down and morph into awareness . A flash and dogs go off after a prey. The men are whooping and rupturing with adrenaline. They set off.
And then, his chance to be a man.
No one noticed except him, a graceful deer that rushed by when they were chasing the boor. A madman spirited inside his head and he sharply tugged the reins. The branches whipped him and soon he lost his horse and ran on his two feet, trying to shield himself with his hands. Like a dancer the deer makes a light, deceptive turn to the side, and he follows clumsily and stumbles down the steep hill covered in bushes. He rolls and rolls and finally thuds on his back, prostrated on earth.
This was different- the nature was in every sound and color, and was pressing heavily on his chest.
The greenness is breathing in his lungs. He wasn’t breathing, but his heart was bursting. His face is smeared with earth and he rolls over in bushes. His head is hot and from beneath his hat sweat rolls down, but the earth is damp with yesterday’s rain. He squints and his eyes smother through his eyelids with intensity of an unhewn spirit.
Time dissipated in sunshine. There, his magnificent creature.
Its contour a whispered line, and sun caresses its soft fur with gold. It stands on tall legs, and leans down its long, beautiful neck to drink. Its eyes are tenderness and loveliness. This moment was traveling within his blood now. This moment was meant to be shared between them, a moment of utter glory of existing. Existing about the lush vegetation, the humid air, the trees, the earth, sun, eyes. Trigger.
He simply pulled the trigger.Silent. Just like that.
Time spilled from the sun. The leaves around him wavered and the earth beneath him rippled with fright that was him. It stood stunned for a moment, and then fell from grace. It took forever with it as it fell. He watched as it convulsed on the ground. Its legs twitched and its body heaved, greenness seeping from its lungs. And it’s eyes, oh it’s eyes. They looked somewhere in the distance, beseeching for mercy. He fumbled for his hunting knife, knowing it was his duty to relieve the pain he caused. A ghost body rose, as his mind was at the same place where the deer’s eyes were looking. As he kneeled down and cast a long, lone shadow over the deer, he realized it was no longer breathing. The steel was glittering somewhere among the grass blades, fallen, forgotten, despised.
He tentatively took its head in his arms and cradled it. He took a good look at his first successful prey. There was moisture around it’s eyes, and big, translucent drops slid down its muzzle. They were snapshots of pain that ceased to be. They softly lolled themselves into its fur, dampening it. Tears. And now the booming of the shot, the breaking, the whistling, the tearing of peace, reached him. The sound of seconds ago was absorbed into his very core, and now something in him snapped, went off.
No one was there to hear his strangled moan, so it did not happen. But it did, followed by sounds of choking- greenness was seeping out of his lungs. He dragged the cap from his hair and felt the melted gel lather across the dried earth on his cheek. He slid his hand through the deer’s back in desperate gesticulation of affection, his hand lost inbetween bloodied tangles of its fur.
When they found him, his hunting outfit was muddy with blood as he reclined by a tree. Idle, alone. In front of him, lay magnificently a great body of a slain animal. His eyes had no color as he fixed them to look at elder hunters.
“ I killed it”. His voice is dry. The words are blood in his mouth, gall in his blood. He steps into the limelight of theirs grins. He was a man now. They think they know better, they invite him to another hunt next Sunday. He tensed but did not falter.
He never went hunting after that day.
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Thank you for reading this. Constructive criticism is very much appreciated. Mindless ogling over the work as well (whoa, way to be arrogant. You know I'm just messign around with you ;D)
