Day Seventeen: Look (10th of August)

It was near her now. She could almost smell the dirt clumped to its fur.

Beautiful, she thought, edging closer, twirling the dagger effortlessly in her hand.

It raised its head cautiously, eyes darting right and left.

It sensed her.

Bree cursed, staying extremely still. Let it feel safe, just this once.

The animal relaxed, and went back to ripping strips of fresh grass from the ground. Bree breathed deeply, allowing her mind to blanche. Nothing existed in this world. Nothing existed. Only the hunter and the hunted. She took another step forwards, and her leather boot crunched the earth, barely making any sound. This was all the warning the deer needed. Its ears flicked backwards and it sprinted towards the clearing, narrowly missing the dagger headed right towards it. This time Bree cursed out loud, slapping her thigh in frustration.

“Dammit!” she growled loudly, sheathing the weapon. Her father was never going to let her live this down, she just knew it. Shoulders slightly hunched, Bree trekked along side of the creek, stopping only occasionally to take a clear cool sip of water. The liquid chilled her burning throat, and she let out a moan escape her lips, her shoulders unknotting.

Bree wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and continued her walk. The trees around her thinned and she immediately spotted her cabin. The lights looked warm and inviting, but Bree knew better than that. Her dad was obviously home. He was obviously going to ask about the antelope he assumed she’d hunted, and she was obviously going to have to mumble an apology and stammer through an excuse to why she obviously didn’t have the damned carcass in her hand. Obviously.

The door creaked open, and Bree came in as quietly as she could, desperately hoping her father was asleep. She gently closed the door, and snuck her way around his armchair and right through the staircase when-

“You’re home.”

Bree groaned silently to herself and turned around, making her way down the wooden steps. She went as slowly as possible, feeling a sudden burst of understanding towards criminals who marched unwillingly to their deaths, their reapers smiling gleefully at the thought of what they were about to do next. His boots tapped the floor, which made approaching him all the more terrifying.

She stopped just behind his chair, and waited.

“Did you put it in the kitchen?” he croaked, coughing violently in his hands. Bree bit her lower lip and said nothing, knowing that he’d clearly understand her. Her father sighed, his nose whistling. “Why didn’t you catch it, Bridget?” he asked again, sounding breathless.

Bree rubbed the back of her ankle with her other foot. “Because it heard me,” she mumbled, barely audible. “I’m sorry, dad, it’s just that it’s autumn and-“

Her father waved his hand dismissively, and attempted at getting up. Bree rushed to his side, and held out her hand. He swatted it away mumbling something about how he could do it. Bree stood helplessly and watched him. His hunched shoulders, his speckled face, his thin white wisps of hair, his trembling aged hands. She winced, hating herself for being youthful while her father suffered with old age.

“Dad, please-“

He grunted, shaking his head. “It’s about time I taught you how to hunt,” he muttered, shuffling towards the door.

Bree swallowed back threatening tears. “You have, dad, ever since I learned to walk you taught me how to hunt. Please sit down.”

But he went on, appearing to have not heard her. “I’ll teach you how to properly hold a knife. Quickest weapon there is, Bree. Lemme just find my good dagger...”

Bree glanced at her pants, staring at the dagger glistening in its sheath. She didn’t say anything, but gently held his hand, leading him towards his chair. “It’s all in the wrist, you know. Just gotta know how to properly aim...” he continued, not noticing the change of direction. Bree sat her father down, grabbing a blanket to cover him with.

Her father blinked, resting his head on her hand. “Thank you, Laurna. How about checking up on Bree on your way upstairs? I think I heard her crying... my baby girl.”

Bree ignored the tears rolling down her cheeks, splashing her father’s cheek. “Of-of course.”

“She’s going to be amazing, when she grows up, our little Bree...” he mumbled to himself, his eyelids growing heavy with permanent drowsiness. Bree slid her hand gently from his shoulder, and headed towards the door, newfound determination fueling her desires to hunt. She hastily wiped her eyes, closing the door behind her.

Her mother had been dead for ten years.

- left-foot-fowl

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Yeah.. so that happened. Alzheimer's a bitch.