Hunting You, Hunting Me (Watty Awards 2012)

Chapter 17

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RECAP:

Standing close enough to ensure that I don’t miss, I tilt the rifle down towards his body. The lightning strikes and the thunder roars within the blackened skies...I cleverly plan to mask the sound of the gunshot so its deathly bark will remain undetected within the forest.  There is an instant flash of lightning and I witness the eerie illumination of his face and its peaceful expression. I experience a pang of guilt, but only for a second. The blinding flash of light is perfectly followed by a deafening confrontation of thunder...and simultaneously with the storm's verbal exploitation, I aim the rifle at Blondie’s chest and pull the trigger.

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Chapter 17

There’s a reason why they say that hindsight is always 20/20. It’s because you can look back and clearly see what you shouldn’t have done.  In hindsight, I shouldn’t have shot Blondie from such a close range, seeing that I am now covered in blood splatter.  And in hindsight, I shouldn’t have held the rifle so close to my body, and I most definitely shouldn’t have put the phone in the pocket of my high-waisted pants.

I loosen the belt of my pants and stretch my neck to assess the damage. I hadn’t expected the butt of the rifle to smack me in the waist, but it seems that I have escaped with only a small bruise.  The phone? Not so lucky. I examine it, as it lies lifeless in my hands, having taken the major brunt of the kickback that occurred when I discharged the rifle. I would have much preferred to have a larger bruise if it meant saving the phone. Crap! My link to the outside world is destroyed. I sigh deeply for what seems like the hundredth time today, and prepare to high-tail it back to my underbrush. 

Before leaving, I force myself to empty out Blondie’s pockets. I avoid looking at the gaping hole in his chest, afraid of what reactions it may arouse in me. The coppery smell of blood wafts through my nostrils as I bend down to access his pockets.  Feeling queasy, I open my mouth and consciously breathe through it. I notice streams of diluted blood flowing by my feet and tainting my converses. I wish the rain would stop already! I work fast, yearning to step away from the puddles of blood that pool at my feet. My fingers pull out a small box of ammunition from one of the many pockets on Blondie’s hiking pants. “Bullets,” I mumble to myself. “How many more people will you force me to kill before you let me out of here?” I ask loudly, to no one in particular.

I pocket the ammo and pick up both the rifles. I am not devastated like I was after I had killed Billy. Maybe it is because Blondie deserved every bit of what I did to him. And to be honest, I would do it again if I had to. So no, I am not in the least bit devastated, nor do I feel guilty. I feel…numb. Indifferent.

I don’t bother with hiding Blondie’s body. In fact, I want his corpse to be eaten by maggots and swarmed with flies, just like the body of the innocent girl who was here before me. What goes around comes around. And frankly, I don’t have the energy to clean up the scene and dispose the body. I shrug nonchalantly and begin to rub my shoes in the mud hoping to scrub away Blondie's blood. Somewhere from inside of me, a tiny voice declares that it doesn’t like the person that I am becoming. Looking up from my feet I reply stubbornly, “Too bad. It’s not like I was given a choice.”  And to drill my point home, I don’t say a prayer for Blondie.  Nor do I say one for myself, because it just so happens that no one is listening anyway.

I limp back to the tree where earlier I had deposited my belongings. Packing the ammo and a rifle into the duffle bag, I begin the long walk back to the underbrush using the second rifle for support. It isn’t easy. The ground is soft and wet, which makes the walk back much harder. And it doesn’t help that I am aching and injured. I really have to push myself, both physically and mentally. During the instances where the urge to give up is strong, I allow myself to sit down and take a rest. But mostly, I push myself to keep moving. The only good news is that the rain has washed away Blondie’s crimson bloodstains from my skin. Hopefully, from my clothes too…