The grass thinned as I moved toward the tree line, soil firm beneath my slippers. My clothes had mostly dried on my body.
I didn't want to use my fists.
It was efficient, sure— brutal, direct— but it made too much of a mess. Same with rocks. Unless you had the right weight and angle, they just stunned or maimed. And I'd rather not leave an animal half-dead before killing it.
I searched the ground. Dry branches. A few thin ones looked straight enough. I took a couple and tested them— too brittle.
A thicker limb from a tree worked better. I also plucked some thin but secure vines.
Then, I went looking for stone. It didn't take long. A few scattered rocks near the river's edge, rough and sharp-edged. I picked out a flake of slate, thin enough to use. Then found a thicker chunk— angled, heavy, jagged on one side. I struck them together until one sheared off a sharp shard. Finally, I tied the limb and stone together with vines as best I could.
I tested the blade against my palm. Light pressure opened a shallow line, clean. Good enough. Gauging its weight, I could tell it wouldn't last long, but I didn't need longevity.
I wasn't new to the basics. My parents used to take me out every fall— just past the border, up where the trees ran denser and the lakes turned sharp in the morning.
We'd camp, cook over fire, and fish or hunt for food. My dad taught me how to make hands-on weapons, 'just in case'.
A rustle in the underbrush drew my attention. I crept forward slowly, keeping low. The breeze shifted, carrying scents and sound alike.
After a few minutes of slow movement, I caught sight of one— small and fast, ears twitching upright. A rabbit.
It hopped forward once, twice; then paused.
I hesitated.
Then, quick, quiet, I lunged in with the spear with as much strength and speed I could muster—
Missed, though not completely. I had grazed its side, now bleeding. A sign of my inexperience with spears.
It bolted. I gave chase, feet pounding earth, eyes scanning ahead. My legs carried me faster than expected, body moving on instinct. The rabbit darted right. So did I. Left again.
Then— I caught it mid-leap, my hands tightening by reflex. The rabbit jerked once, then went limp. No sounds.
I held it for a moment longer than necessary. It was so light. Warm still.
That moment after life left— when had I started getting used to it?
One down.
The scent of warm blood and viscera hit my nose. For a moment, I was twelve again, watching my dad skin a deer while talking about the price of gas, his hands bloody and his mind now a million miles away.
I set the body beside a tree, clearing a few leaves. I didn't look at it again.
You eat what you kill. Valid rationalization. Still, something about the quiet afterward stuck.
I've never believed in the 'sanctity' of life. But even if it was a natural process, killing innocents always left a bad taste in my mouth.
My dad's figure flashes in my mind. Is my disregard for life an extension of my complicity? Or just part of my nature?
The next one went better. I spotted it from higher ground, waited for the right moment, and threw the spear clean through the side. It kicked once, then stilled.
I adjusted my grip without thinking this time. Not good. Not bad. Just faster.
My body had already started making micro-adjustments— stance, pressure, reaction time. The system wasn't needed to tell me that. I could feel it.
I jogged down, retrieved the weapon, and examined the point.
Still usable.
The third was a test of patience. I tracked it for nearly twenty minutes before it slowed. This one was larger than the others. Healthy. Alert. I trailed it at a distance, then crept up behind a tree.
I took a breath, stepped out— and ended it with a single jab. Deep and decisive.
The spear felt like an extension of my arm now. I was adjusting fast. Each second of pursuit honed a different instinct— foot placement, timing, the rhythm of breathing through a sprint. My brain adapted without waiting for approval.
I watched the body twitch once before going limp.
Three.
I gathered the bodies and headed back, stopping briefly to snap some twigs off nearby trees. Firewood. I built a small pit near the building.
Making a fire wasn't new either.
I'd done it in drizzle, with matches, flint, or a spark from foil. While camping, my job had always been fire prep.
Stones ringed the edge. I struck sparks with a shard of flint I pocketed near the river, dry wood catching fast. After growing it to a stable level, I set two rabbits down near the pit and got to work.
No hesitation. No second thoughts. The motions came easy. Cut along the belly, peel the skin back, disjoint the legs. Snap at the hips. Separate the meat from the bone. As best I could with my spear, anyway.
Preparing the ingredients was always my duty, whether while camping or at home. Sometimes I'd help with cooking, too— though I was hopeless at baking.
... Dad didn't care much about animals. Not in a cruel way, just... vacant. He'd skin something while talking about taxes or local elections.