Victoria's Journal

June 14th, 2020

I killed a deer today.

Clean shot. Fast drop. No suffering. The kind of thing people used to say meant you were doing something right.

That was a lie.

I didn’t move it far enough. I didn’t need to. The blood did the work for me, soaking into the dirt and leaves, loud in a way I forgot blood could be. It felt like a mistake the second the smell hit my nose, thick and coppery, but by then it was already traveling.

The smell carried farther than sound ever could.

The children came first.

Not running. Not crying. Not the sloppy, dragging movement of adults. They appeared at the edge of the trees and stopped, all at once, like someone had drawn a line they wouldn’t cross yet. Heads tilted. Noses lifted. Small chests rising and falling as they tasted the air.

Patient.

I should have run then. I didn’t. I stood there, hand still on the rifle, watching them watch me.

Then the calm broke.

Five became ten. Ten became too many. They didn’t rush me. They rushed the deer.

I barely made it up the tree. Branches tore at my arms, bark scraped skin raw, my pack swung and banged against the trunk like it wanted to betray me. I climbed too fast, breath ripping out of my chest, heart hammering loud enough that I was sure they could hear it.

By the time I looked down, they had reached the body.

They didn’t hesitate.

Small hands sank into warm flesh. Teeth followed. No ceremony. No struggle. They tore into it like they had done this a thousand times before, like this was a memory their bodies kept even if their minds were gone. Blood sprayed their faces, ran down chins, soaked into clothes that were once bright with cartoons and school logos.

I swallowed bile and stayed still.

They made sounds then. Not moans. Not screams. Wet, satisfied noises. Growls too deep for their throats. One of them laughed. I swear to God, one of them laughed, high and sharp, before biting down harder.

My deer.

My kill.

My food.

Gone in minutes.

I watched them eat until there was nothing left to recognize. Ribs snapped. Skin vanished. Bones were dragged apart and gnawed clean. When they were done, they didn’t leave right away. They licked their fingers. They sniffed the ground. They sniffed the tree.

They sniffed me.

My pack. My rifle. Everything I own sits at the base of this tree, splashed with blood and surrounded by bones and children who will not leave.

I hate them.

I hate that they’re small. I hate that they’re quiet. I hate that they learned patience before they learned mercy. I hate that they don’t wander like adults do. They stay. They wait. They remember where food was.

They remember where I am.

The sun has moved. My arms shake from holding myself steady. Thirst claws at my throat. Hunger burns worse now that I watched them eat what should have kept me alive another week.

They’re still down there.

Looking up.

Waiting.