Redemption

Eight years ago I had an accident.  I still feel the rain in my hair when I think about it, see the droplets sparkling in my headlights, hear my car horn blaring from the ditch.  Damp pine needles squished silently under my hands as I dragged myself from underneath the Ford Focus.  Using the car’s hood and the tree it rested on for leverage, I pulled myself to my feet.  Rough bark scraped my skin, and hot metal under my hand contrasted the cool drizzle on my face.  The sweet scent of rain-soaked earth was tainted by an acrid and metallic tone--blood, but not mine.  The creature gazed at me with those dazed, glassy eyes you expect from a downed deer.  It didn’t even try to run as I ambled down the hill toward it.  I felt bad, though I was an avid hunter.  Killing God’s creatures brought me no pleasure.  The animal clearly wasn’t going to make it, and I felt worse just leaving it there in the road, so I dragged its small frame up the hill and dispatched it with my knife as quickly as I could.  They usually put up a bit of a fight, but this one just stared at me without a sound or struggle.  That peaceful resignation struck me, and still haunts my late-night ponderings.  

The eager hunter that I was, I couldn’t simply leave a fine trophy, especially one so unique, so I took his head to mount in my study with the others.  A kill is a kill and should be honored whether taken on a hunting excursion or a routine commute home.  I thanked the creature for his sacrifice, as I always did, and buried it under some rocks and leaves to keep predators from dragging the carcass back onto the road.  Already, the last remnants of blood were washing away, along with all memory of what happened in that little spot.  My Focus rumbled to life and the only accompaniment to my drive was the hum of pavement and rhythm of windshield wipers.  Something about that night changed me.  I remembered the accident with fondness--almost a religious reverence.  I hunted less after that; sitting and waiting for helpless animals to appear in my sights bored me.  Every new kill was tainted by the thrill I couldn’t replicate; every new mount paled next to my holy prize.  It wasn’t all at once, of course.  I felt the change growing within me like a tree, slowly, persistently, until the memory occupied every thought like the buzz of a mosquito in my ear.  Today, I was determined to put away the ghosts of the past, the thoughts that still haunted me.  I took the trophy mount lovingly from its place and kissed his still-tender forehead.

I drove out to the spot, like I did every year, to honor my new direction.  He spoke to me today as I neared the place, though his bones were long turned to dust.  I heard his voice so clearly, whispering purpose to my soul.  The voice grew stronger as I carried his head toward his shallow grave.  Following his sacred instruction, I returned with him to my Focus.  Gingerly I pulled the car up the hill, resting the front bumper against the same tree as eight years before.  While the boy slumbered in the front seat, I fastened the horn with tape.  It was like music in my ears.  A song long forgotten in the woods, finally remembered and worshiping.  My crossbow, retrieved from its place in the trunk, felt purposeful at last in my hands.  Sweet earth filled my nostrils as I crawled under the car to wait, as he instructed.

I fixed my scope on the little white cross by the side of the road.  It memorialized a young man found dead and mutilated under some rocks and leaves eight years ago.  It memorialized a cold-case, a murder never solved, a killer still at large.  I didn’t mean to kill him.  I didn’t mean for today to go this way.  I planned to return my trophy to its rest, and after eight long years to turn myself in and give his family peace.  I planned to make amends, to seek forgiveness, and to right my wrongs.  That’s not what he wanted.  It’s not what I wanted.  I longed for the thrill I felt that night.  My pulse quickened, anticipating.

The sound of a diesel engine rumbled beneath the constant tone of my horn.  A truck rounded the bend.  It slowed.  Stopped.  The door opened.  This was it, the moment I’d waited eight long years to savor.  The driver lumbered toward me.  A big, shaggy buck.  His winter coat hadn’t yet shed.  Much bigger than my last.  What a gorgeous mount he’d make.

“Hello?”

I waited.

“Hello? Are you okay?”

He looked at my car, at the little white cross.  He stooped, touching my tire track.  I begged him silently to take just a few more steps.  He was cautious, like so many whitetails hanging in my study, and like the whitetails, he was inferior.  I, the cunning hunter, laid my trap perfectly.

The twang of my bowstring was drowned out by the horn.  He didn’t hear it.  He didn’t see the bolt sailing toward his chest.  Impact.  Down.  I emerged, wanting him to see me, wanting him to know my face before the end.  Shocked, glassy eyes met mine.  A little blood trickled from the buck’s mouth.  Raspy, labored breaths were barely audible.  The rush I craved washed over me, making me dizzy.  The wood hilt of my knife felt warm, solid, and real--it kept me grounded, present, sharp.  I smelled it--that ferrous, sweet scent of ultimate victory.  The buck mouthed something like a question or a plea for mercy.  I couldn’t hear over the rush of blood in my ears.  His shaking hand flashed to his hip--a gun.  I pounced before he could bare his fangs.  My blade rammed into the soft underbelly of the animal and up, under its ribcage.  He grunted, hot tobacco-laden breath brushing my face.  A loud pop rang in my ears.  A second.  My gut is on fire and I can’t feel my legs.  The smell of my own blood mixes with his.  We’re laying in the road, staring at each other.  The look in his eyes says what I’m thinking.  Neither of us get to go home.  I came today to make things right, but I guess some people don’t get second chances.