Black Dog

**Triggers: Physical Violence, Strong Language, and Mental Health.**

"I'd win," I'd told them. "You see these scars on my face and my arms? These medals carved into my flesh? I lose to nothing. I give in to nothing. I'd win."

Then, I downed my third glass of whiskey. You see, I'd the notion of proving my sturdiness by bringing in this bounty in the dark of night with my eyes crossed. Didn’t think I was using it to cover anything up...

“I’m not the green boy I was back then; despair has forgotten the taste of my soul. I’m tougher than my father and all the hunting men before him. Against me, the monsters are the ones that quake.”

"But it made the sheriff go dumb," the bounty setter replied. "He ain’t speak for days."

"Well, you're gonna have to set me up on a podium when I get back. You won't forget my voice."

He’d shown me the recent victims. There were five, all of them wide-eyed and mangled… just like my old man was. “All hunters”, he said. “Hunters just like yourself.”

I didn’t care.

“I’m not like them. I don’t die.”

...Damned fool I was.

The folk in my hometown always said it wasn't a wolf that owned this mountain, that the white stones and dead trees here belonged to a child of Satan himself. Just a few days back, they’d thought to send the priest up here and make God rain down his fury upon this cursed place.

“My fury’s worse. It’ll take but a few seconds for the beast to burn in it.”

It takes me standing here with my lamp between these white and dead elements, shaking, staring down at this lord of evil, to believe what they’d told me in all those years.

It's too smart to be a wolf.

It's too big.

The darkness has eyes, and it has set them upon me for longer than I know. It has allowed me to see it watching me before it claims me.

It's dead-still for a long while, making sure these truths, the only truths that matter, take root in my mind. I can feel the malice of its ancient soul from all the way up here.

I can’t stop shaking...

It climbs.

I do too, in the opposite direction, but not well. The world’s swirling around me; the half-moon’s going in circles. My dodgy knee keeps giving in against the incline. See, I planned to use the money from this bounty to have a doctor look at it but... I'm afraid nobody's gonna have much of anything to look at when this is over.

I’m afraid…

What's the use in running? The demon might as well be close enough to sink its teeth in me. I know this, 'cause I can't stop looking back and seeing it fade in and out of the darkness in its approach. Here. There.

Closer.

Closer.

"Shit!"

I’m down; the pebbles are like bolts in my ribs. I don't know what I tripped on but finding out won't do me any good. My lamp’s all smashed up and the fire’s already caught on to the weeds. It’s spreading. I gotta keep going. I gotta--

I got my rifle. It's in my hands. I've been running like a damn child, even though I've still got my father’s carbine rifle, right here.

It's loaded. I'm professional like that: always ready.

I crouch, take aim, and wait for the beast to show itself. It does. Not as smart as I thought. I fire, and the sound of its pain is the most beautiful symphony I've ever heard.

Why not hear it again?

Reload.

Bang.

Reload.

Bang.

The singing of angels couldn't compare to this.

I set my iron sights right between its yellow eyes and for the last time...

Bang.

I see it drop.

Sheriff's gone dumb, huh? He just wasn't good enough. 'Not a wolf', huh? Sure as hell dies like one.

I limp my way to the carcass, thinking at first to use its head not only as proof of my righteous deed but as a trophy. But as I stand over it, something else occurs: if I drag the whole thing back, a trapper could fix up a nice coat from its pelt.

That’s a winner’s idea. That’s a show of manhood.

"You hear that?" I kick it. "You'll keep me warm in the winter,” I kick it again, “you damn—”

It's got my good leg. Its teeth are in my good leg.

I take aim but it yanks me. I see the stars in the sky whirling about. I'm on the ground again. I'm screaming, screaming.

Where the hell did my rifle fall?

I'm begging God, the beast, anything that'll listen-- please, something listen to me.

But that’s just how things work, ain’t it? They’ll hear you. They’ll always hear you. But they’ll never listen.

A stick. I've got a stick in my hands, power in my hands. I swing it into the beast’s face and it recoils.

Where's my goddamn rifle? I crawl, search the darkness, and find nothing but more of it. The fire doesn’t help.

The beast growls at me. I see where my bullets struck it, smoking in its fur. There are more, cold ones, and arrows sticking out of its sides: proof of the dead hunters’ pointless efforts.

I scamper away until my back hits a boulder. I hold my hands up as if this murderous thing understands mercy.

...Well, that's that, then… This is the end. All that running... all that fighting... and for what? A bed of dirt and stone?

My pants are wet. It’s not just blood…

Christ, I’m cold.

My vision's all blurred up.

Me, a grown man, weeping and pissing himself. What kind of shit is this?

I squeeze my eyes shut and I whimper and wait.

...But nothing happens.

When I open them, I see the beast just... sitting there... staring at me like it did from the mountain’s foot. It's not growling anymore, not even baring its teeth.

I don’t know what it wants. I don’t know how to make it go away.

Embers dance around us.

Up close like this... it looks like an overgrown dog. A black dog.

…Must be the whiskey.

The black dog sits with me. I sit with the black dog. We don't move.