I take in the view around me: the scattered pinecones, assorted mushrooms, and thick coats of moss blanketing the soft forest Earth. There’s a crispness to the air that tells me the season will soon turn. A breeze rustles through burning vermillion and amber leaves on the trees encompassing me, sending a chill down my spine. The sun peaks through the forest ceiling of Douglas fir, sugar maple and red oak. It shines right on him.
He blends right into the woods surrounding him: his beard shifts from squash to saffron to spiced cider, muted marmalade hair swept away in the seasonal winds. The light melts his hazel eyes to hues of honey and harvest gold. He smiles at me, a gap between his front teeth—a smile I could never forget. It makes me smile too.
He’s very smart; he’s actually the smartest person I’ve ever met. I’ve learned so much from him. From career guidance to life lessons to personal advice, he’s been the best mentor I could ever ask for. I’m eager for him to teach me how to hunt.
He starts to collect leaves, packing them on top of each other to form a mound of marigold and chestnut, crunching with every step he takes. I ask him what he is doing, but he just giggles and keeps piling higher and higher. Once the leaves are up to his waist, he steps backward six paces, runs full speed at the mound, and jumps, landing right in the middle. He laughs, telling me to join him, so I do. I sink into the pile, leaves spilling on top of me like an autumnal blanket.
“You’re going to be my boss one day,” he says, turning to face me.
“What? Are you kidding? No, I’m not!” I scoff, shaking my head at him.
“Yes, you are! You’re going to be the CEO of SpaceX!”
“I don’t know about that. You’re way smarter than me.”
“You’re the smartest person that has ever walked through our company’s doors.”
“You are so blowing smoke up my ass.”
“I’m serious. Promise you’ll go easy on me when you’re my boss?”
“I pinky promise.”
We lock pinkies and lay in silence. Suddenly, he grabs a handful of leaves and throws it in my face. I laugh and throw some back. He stands up and takes off running. I chase him as he weaves between trees, dodging around bushes and under branches. A branch clips the top of my head and I’m knocked backward on to the forest floor. Blood drips from my forehead, crimson drops hitting the moss patches in my lap. It doesn’t hurt; it just feels warm. He spins around and runs to help, but before he can reach me, I’m back on my feet, running.
I reach a creek and wade until the cold water reaches my ankles. He stops at the shoreline, cornering me. I cup my hands full of water and throw it at him. He gasps, water dripping from his face, lunging into the creek to retaliate. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her. I hold my hand out and pull my finger to my lips. Stopped, he turns to see her too.
Emerging slowly from the water, we move lightly as not to scare her, crouching behind a bush out of eyeshot. “She’s a perfect target!” He whispers, excited. I want to catch her, too. He pulls the rifle from his back and threads the barrel through the twigs of the bush. He hands me the stock, and I crawl in front of him so that it rests on my shoulder. He positions my right arm on the trigger and I close one eye to aim. I see her through the crosshair.
She’s beautiful: a whitetail, with a ruddy brown coat speckled with white tufts of fur. She has a narrow coal-toned snout and dainty hooves. She looks at me. Her eyes were a glossy umber, almost reflective.
I move my finger off the trigger.
He presses his finger over mine, forcing it back down. I flinch at the gunshot reverberating through the forest. I hear her thud against the Earth. I drop the rifle and pull away, running to her.
I approach to find a puddle surrounding her body. I had missed her head and hit her neck. Blood flooded around her carcass, and struggled wheezes escape what remains of her throat. I watch in horror at her suffering and kneel beside her to rest my hand on her head.
He approaches my side soundlessly, like a wolf. I see his boots in my peripheral vision, and I wish I did not have to look at him. Anxiously, I glance up, but he is smiling at the ever-growing crimson pool. The blood that leaks from my forehead is the same color.
He lifts my chin with his hand so that I am faced with his piercing gaze. “You have the most beautiful doe eyes,” he says, still smiling.
I turn to face her again. Her eyes do remind me of my own. “I’m sorry,” I wept, pressing my fingers to her eyelids to close them. And I watch as my hands turn to hooves, and my own flesh, to venison.