Competition Day

Trigger Warning: This story contains dark themes, including violence and death.

Competition Day slowly crept closer and closer, like a snake slithering towards its prey, waiting for its moment to strike. In the town of Elderswood, it was required of every young man who turned 18 to participate—a rite of passage observed for generations. Taking place once a year from sunrise till nightfall, those who did not attend when politely invited to compete were imprisoned and tried for failing to uphold years of tradition and law. Tradition was heavily valued in Elderswood, and, to my understanding, meant to do over and over again without question. Most of the families residing here traced their origins back to the town’s founding. Outsiders were not as warmly welcomed and were often ushered out, as they questioned and challenged the established traditions—an unforgivable act met with punishment.

Competition Day was among the most important and inevitable traditions. I had been training for it for as long as I could remember. Some of my earliest childhood memories were of the many trainers my parents employed to ensure my victory. I first worked with a professor from a reputable university, who quizzed me on the anatomy of animals, showing me the vulnerabilities of each pitiful creature and where their vital organs were located. After demonstrating mastery over all animals within the animal kingdom, I began to work with another reputable trainer who specialized in hunting. I remember this man in great detail: he had a scar over his left eye, a nasty cough, and the scent of ash that followed him like a shadow. I spent most days in his company, more than in the presence of my father. Each sunrise, I would walk with him to the forest at the edge of town to practice hunting large game such as deer, focusing on the key vulnerability points I had previously learned from the professor, such as the heart, brain, and occasionally the leg to ensure the animal could not flee from another devastating blow.

The rifle given to me was from my father. It was customary for each family to have a rifle passed down from generation to generation. The Thorne family had gained a high reputation for succeeding on Competition Day over the years, and so my rifle was especially old. Along with this family rifle was a knife with engravings that had been so dulled down that they were unreadable. I asked my father about it on one occasion over supper, and he explained to me that it once said “Invictus,” the Latin word for Undefeated. As much as I’m ashamed to mention this fact about my earlier life, the sight of animal blood would cause me to become nauseous. This, of course, was ordinary the first time someone young might witness death; however, mine was especially troubling because it did not stop after the first encounter. Rather, it continued. I recall once declining to harm the animal entirely. This was a troubling and puzzling predicament for my father to face, as his only son would be responsible for the family legacy's downfall. Fortunately, it was a problem he soon fixed by sitting me down in the study and playing back the footage from his earlier hunting alongside his father. Though the recording was old and worn, I remember the sound of the cries of the animals as clear as day, and the images of blood and brutality were incredibly well-detailed for such an aged device. It did not take long for this to show signs of working; I soon became a ruthless hunter and could be seen enjoying it on occasion.

After mastering larger game, I moved on to more skill-demanding tasks, such as hunting while hanging from a tree upside down, running, or even while standing on one foot. I once managed to stalk an elk until nightfall, camouflaging myself and getting as close to the animal as possible without it noticing me. I remember feeling the breath of the elk steady on my face through the tall grass that concealed me. As dusk fell, I killed the beast with the knife before returning to the manor.

The grand dining room was filled with the heads of the creatures I had killed. It was traditional for the women in the family to practice taxidermy and display their sons' victories while training, often showing them off to the friends invited over to tea. It was not uncommon for a room to be solely dedicated to the animals killed in the process of training. It would often be referred to as the showroom and was the most well-decorated room in the house.

I can’t imagine the trouble I’ve put my mother through over the years with the number of carcasses I’ve carelessly dragged into the house for her to stuff and display. It soon became a competition between my mother and Ethel, the wife of the Dawson family across from us, competing on whose house had the grandest showroom. They had a son named Jack around the same age as I, who also took pride in hunting. Though I consider myself superior to him, we would have our own competitions. We would sneak from our bedrooms at night with our rifles and meet up by the oak tree between our properties. Then, we would race to the forest to be the first to slay a creature of the night.

One night, I mistook Jack for a wolf and shot him. Fortunately for him, I hadn’t had much rest that night, and so it was only his leg that took the blow. If he had been on all fours as I anticipated, it would have been a much more fatal injury in his neck. After returning home, he was harshly scolded for getting shot by me, while I had a very different conversation with my father, who took me out for a smoke. I was surprised not to be met with any punishment; rather, he seemed proud of me for taking the initiative. After all, it was Jack’s own fault for letting me get the jump on him—a skilled hunter never lets his guard down. His father must have been cross with him because shortly after, he constructed a fence around their house and gated the portion of woods they owned so Jack could practice further without interference. I haven’t seen Jack since then, and I must have scared away any further competition because no one else dared to challenge me again.

Competition Day was now only a few days away, and I took advantage of every moment to prepare myself, never forgetting any of the training I’d received. I have full confidence in my abilities and am sure I’ll bring honor to the Thorne family name. Locals have even started to place bets on the winners—my name has come up many times in conversation. Just the other day, while making my usual walk into town towards the forest, a man turned to me and said, “You show some real promise with that rifle of yours.”

“I do believe highly in my skill, sir,” I replied.

“As do I. I’ve bet every cent I’ve got on you come Competition Day.”

“Quite the risk, sir.”

“On the contrary, I believe it to be an investment. I’m not the only one who thinks so. Something good may even come out of this.”

Most conversations I have with passersby go this way. It’s not until I’ve proven my worth come Competition Day that I’ll acquire the high status of a man such as my father. Other men my age go months without a word from a stranger. I’ve not seen much of any of my future competition; they must still be hiding away from me, too intimidated to look me in the eye. I imagine it’s the same feeling a rabbit has when staring into the eyes of a wolf, knowing it’s only a matter of time until its fearful gaze is broken and the ground pours red with its blood. It has no hope of escaping, and so it surrenders itself to the superior predator. I suppose I should stop referring to them as competition and instead call them what they are—prey. Future victims and witnesses to my success, yielding to my might.

With Competition Day now only a day away, it was time for another Elderswood tradition to take place—the bonfire. All would gather around a bonfire fueled with wood collected from the forest in celebration of all who would be participating in the upcoming event. Through the fiercely burning fire, it was there I saw the familiar face of Jack, though it was bruised and more beaten than I had last seen him. He sat on a makeshift chair by himself, staring into the flames with his head lowered like a wounded forest creature.

“It looks like I’m not the only one who’s bested you, judging by your appearance,” I called out to him. His position remained fixed, deciding whether or not to respond to my remarks. After a moment, he lifted his head to match my gaze before speaking, “Show me humanity; spare me with the little time and dignity I have left before you take it all away from me."

I respected his wishes. He and his family would face utter embarrassment in the days to come. It was unnecessary to humiliate and break him any further. I allowed him his moment of solitude. Meanwhile, I enjoyed the rest of the evening boasting of my victories and basking in the camaraderie of others. I had such a grand night I could barely remember any of it. I believe at some point I may have kissed another man, though it's for the best I don't remember who. It’s not wise to get close to those you compete against; it creates conflicts and brings the nasty matter of personal tension into the situation.

As I awoke from the floors of an unfamiliar bedroom with the man I assumed I had drunk with the previous night, I steadied myself in a hurry to return to my abode. It was crucial to be level-headed and ready for the competition ahead. I had overslept and already made a grave mistake that could cost me greatly. I rushed homeward to prepare myself with the little time I had left. Now dressed and able to walk in a straight line, I grabbed my knife and rifle from the mantel and headed toward the large crowd of people waiting for entry into the building where the competition would soon begin.

Sinking deep into the ground, the building was reminiscent of a miniature colosseum, echoing the legendary Roman gladiator arenas. Its core was constructed of solid concrete, exuding an air of ancient, indomitable strength. Unlike the flat, even surface of its Roman predecessor, this arena boasted a landscape of uneven terrain and lush vegetation, creating an enclosed replica of the wild, untamed forests surrounding our town.

The arena featured only two points of entry and exit, both through the same formidable door. One led into the heart of the battleground where the competition would unfold, while the other opened into the elevated seating area where spectators could observe the spectacle from above. The door to the arena would be locked shut as soon as all participants were accounted for, sealing us inside. This door could only be unlocked from the outside, effectively discouraging any attempts to flee from the scene. The second door, however, remained open to any curious wanderers.

As I stepped into the arena, I looked up to see dark clouds gathering, and soon, the sky opened up, releasing a torrent of rain. The raindrops began to patter against the vegetation and uneven ground, creating a symphony of nature’s turmoil. The once solid earth turned slick and treacherous, adding another layer of challenge to the impending competition.

A man shouted out from the spectating booth, declaring the rules of the competition. I didn’t pay much attention to his words, as I was already well aware of the events that would conspire. The contest would determine the best hunter; all participants were to spread out throughout the arena, and shortly after everyone had settled into their positions, a pistol would be fired into the air, signaling the start of the competition. This shot also signaled the permitted use of firearms, which participants would use when wandering through the enclosed forest battleground, hunting the prey scattered throughout the arena. The winner would be announced as soon as there was nothing more to hunt. The rules were simple, and so was the challenge. I'm not entirely sure if you could call it a challenge; it was more of a game—and one that I had trained for heavily and was prepared to win at all costs.

I'm not sure if it was the pistol that was fired off first or the bolt of lightning signaling Zeus’s fury; either way, guns from all directions around me started to go off, blazing in a frenzy. I quickly covered myself in the fresh patch of mud and began my hunt. I spotted my first two victims while sitting atop a tree, ending both of their lives with two well-placed bullets. Precision was key; there were no caches of ammo stashed for reloading—you only had what you came in with. This is where my lessons with the professor would prove the most useful, showing me key vulnerability points in every animal.

I continued my hunt close to the ground, using the thick bushes to my advantage. Apparently, so did another, because it was there I found the third victim to my wrath. The rain came crashing down more violently than before. Soon, the sound of thunder overpowered and muted any sound coming from the firearms. All surfaces were covered in rain and would now be harder to climb for advantageous points. I would have to continue my hunt solely on the ground. I went into a crawling position, completely camouflaged by the mud that ever persistently surrounded me. Hunting wasn’t about comfort; it was about resilience.

A few hours had passed by, and there became a greater pause in between shots. I managed to kill all that had passed me with a single bullet, but ever still, my ammunition was almost completely depleted. I walked through the terrain, stepping over the carcasses of all that had fallen due to the hunt. The rain washed away the bloodstains that soaked into the ground. I encountered Jack once more; he was visibly nervous and weak. He had taken a bullet in his shoulder and looked around quickly, aiming with his rifle wherever he heard a sound. I suspected he ran out of ammo or was waiting for the next victim to come across him. To test my theory, I took a rock lying by my foot and threw it towards a nearby bush. I watched him jump at the noise, retreating rather than attacking. I chased after him, cornering him into the walls of the colosseum. I could see the look of terror in his eyes, the way he shook, barely able to grip the rifle in his hand, his breath heavy.

“I beg you, please.”

“A hunter rarely considers the pleaded cries of the animal whom he pursues.”

“This is an insane, sadistic ritual. You must know that. You have to see that. Tell me you see it!”

He was clearly desperate. His breath became more shaky, his voice breaking, and he dropped his rifle as he raised his arms above his head to signal defeat.

“What else can we do, Jack?”

“You can spare me. It’s not too late, please.”

“Spare you? What good would that do? Not only would it bring shame to your family's legacy but to mine as well.”

“To hell with legacy! This is absurd!”

“It’s what’s been done for generations.”

“Come to your senses! You’re not a ruthless killer. There must be some light in you, if not at least a spark within your darkened soul. Lower your weapon, I beg you. You have a choice to no longer follow tradition blindly. You may not realize it, but you do. You can break the cycle, stop the merciless bloodlust.”

I’m unproud to say that Jack’s words started to take root in my mind. I did the unthinkable that would sooner get me thrown out of town and fed to the wolves that surrounded it. I started to question myself; I questioned my morals and I questioned my family's legacy altogether. The onlooking crowd started to grow restless, booing Jack and me for stalling and depriving them of entertainment. My father's unforgiving face stood out to me the most; I could see his disapproval as I stalled my decision to end Jack’s life before his eyes. Whatever my decision, I would have to make it quickly.

I can’t say I’m proud of what I did next. I only hope that I may one day find forgiveness.