Consequences

They say, in life you make choices. Choices have consequences they say. But what ever happened to mine? Why did I never  face the consequences of my actions. Maybe this is my punishment. Maybe the paranoia and bitterness is my judgement. I write, but what for? It brings no clarity, it brings no end to my suffering, to my madness. I remember it perfectly well. I will write each detail as maybe it will be drawn from my brain so I may never remember this again. 

It was a cold winter morning. The air was brittle and sharp, like shattered glass. You could see your breath in the air and feel the nimble hands of the air clawing at you, hoping to steal what little warmth it can from your body. My house was a radiant chapel, in a dark unforgiving forest. My small cabin, with more than enough firewood to keep me warm. I remember the fall before, cutting logs without a care. I held that same axe before me now. The blade was sharp, and shone in the blistering light of the fireplace. I held it with a hard grip. The week before I planned perfectly, every fine detail. I watched his every move I could. I studied and memorized his routine. The same, mind numbing routine. Day in, day out. Day in, day out. He without fail would wake everyday, and open the window. He would look out on the once beautiful, now dead forest. He would close the window tight. 

His door was locked until he left at eight. Always eight. Exactly eight. It’s as if he waits for the clock to tick to eight. That would be my chance. I just needed to wait. The clock said it was minutes, but time passed like hours, days at a time. The fire crackling was the only thing that kept me here. The clock ticked, and ticked. It knew what was to come. I know of that much. All eyes were on me. I saw his door open, finally. He walked, the snow crunching under his thick, fur boots. I pulled myself off of my small chair. It creaked under me and in that moment I was scared the man would turn his head to me. 

I walked slowly, ever slowly to his home. I tried the knob, unlocked as always. I pushed the door open slowly, it screamed at me. Guilty. Guilty it called me. I clambered in and shut the door, not caring for the slam. I just needed time. I walked, ever so slowly. The floorboards creaked, screaming at me to stop. To go home. I kept going, I was too far in. His house was so quiet, and cold. The bitter air grasped at my body. A small dog, covered in black fur, laid on the bed. Another beast in my woods. He brought another. I thought the other would be the last. I raised my axe up and walked to the bed, creeping, making sure not to startle the dog. I raised the axe over my head and brought it down onto the dog. It let out a small yelp. And that was it.

The blood glistened on the blade. A beautiful, scarlet shade. A shame, a crying shame. It was a shame I couldn’t keep this creature. I had to get rid of it. I had to. If he found it, I know it would be the end for me. He would scream. Guilty. Guilty. Now, I wait again. I know this man, this beast, will bring more. More blight to my forest. I must put an end to his madness. To his slaughter of my forest. 

Hours passed. I knew it would be long, but this felt like I would die before he came back. I couldn’t make out what noises were which anymore. The door finally creaked open, slowly. I was crammed into his closet. He stepped in, the blood of his hunt soaking his clothes. He carried the carcass of a deer. This madness will end. It must end. He set the deer down on his bed. He looked around slowly, analyzing his room. I pushed through the closet door slowly. He began to chop into the neck of the carcass. Blood leaked out onto the wooden floor, seeping in slowly. I heard him hit the bone. A loud crunch, and snap, and the head was clean off. The fur of the carcass was soaked in blood now. I was right behind him, practically breathing on him. He dropped his knife and picked the head up. As he turned, I swear I could hear his heart beat louder and louder. He turned to me. His eyes were hollow, then filled with the fear of prey. Prey under the barrel of a rifle. The hunter was the hunted.

He was dead. And my axe was buried in his sunken chest. It was done. My forest, was calm once more. I pulled my axe out and brought it down on his neck. The crunch echoed through the cabin. I took his head off the floor and raised it into the light of the setting sun. I brought it back through the cold, to my cabin. A bastion of hope for this small, decrepit forest. 

His head still haunts me. It will go in time, it always does. But the bitterness, it never leaves. Maybe this is my punishment. The never ending suffering of carrying the knowledge. Or maybe it’s the curse of having to keep their bloodied heads. I am a trophy hunter. I hunt not for food, but for fun. I sustain the forest, and I protect it. The forest hungers for blood. Survival of the fittest they say. Survival of the fittest they cry. But they don’t see the eyes. Those cursed eyes. They are always the same. So hollow, and then they fill with the fear of game under the rifle. They always bring friends as well. I never get to leave them be. Maybe it’s me that has the same routine. Maybe it's me.