If We Exist

11.

We were eleven and twelve years old; our limbs had grown a bit taller, a few more teeth had fallen out and been replaced, our faces and minds had matured, but deep down our essence was still the same.

I didn't want to get out of bed. The view from my bedroom window predicted it to be a crisp and clear autumn morning. The tree crowns swayed gently back and forth in the wind. I imagined they were waving a sorrowful goodbye to what little still remained of my sleep.

Mjinska had already been in my room to warn me that Yuri was on his way. I had grunted and wrapped the duvet tighter around myself as a response.

I closed my eyes in protest and bargained with God to grant me eternal rest.

A small part of me kept insisting that if I complained loud enough, strapped myself to my bed and stood my ground firmly, my father and Yuri would tire of me dragging my feet. All I really wanted was for them to forget about my existence, just this once.

Light streamed in through narrow slits in the draperies and cast long lines onto the walls. The air felt suspended in the room. If in that instance, I had attempted to strain my ears I would have heard the muffled barks of the hunting dogs chained outside by the gable. But there was someone much closer who stole my attention. My father's footsteps scuffed about in the living room, getting the last preparation in place for the hunt.

The dogs belong to my aunt's husband, Mr Benofs. Yuri, I remembered, was also bringing over his mutt.

I groaned inwardly.

This predicament of mine had set into motion the prior evening, over dinner at our residence. During the course of the meal we had somehow diverged onto the topic of hunting. Mr Benofs told the table that he and my father were planning on 'catching' game early the following morning. A discussion about the health of one of the dogs followed, but by then I had successfully zoned out.

Mr Benofs said something which brought my attention back to the table. He'd said that hunting was a man's sport and that whoever failed to shoot his first game before reaching twelve would remain stuck in boyhood forever.

I frowned and looked up at him in disbelief.

- It's common knowledge, he said with a nonchalant shrug.

I looked over at my father and saw he was nodding in affirmation. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Did it mean I had to kill an animal to become a man? I felt sick to my stomach.

My father went on to tell us a story about when my grandfather had taken him out to shoot his first buck. He was an animated storyteller my father, and Yuri had fallen for all the colourful adjectives being thrown around the table. He had gotten that gleam in his eyes I knew meant he was inspired to do something reckless.

- May I join you? He blurted.

I choked on my food.

Mr Benofssimply smiled like the Cheshire cat.

- Well of course young man.

I glared holes into the side of his face. May I join you? May. I. He never spoke like that unless my father was present. Which only proved me right. He sought too much approval from him. I would point this out to Yuri at times, but he would deny it or shrug it off by saying  I was just rude in comparison. I couldn't be sure what he was thinking at that moment, but seeing as my father was carefully observing the conversation, I suspected Yuri wanted to appease him, not realising that it was a trap, that all they really wanted was for me to join them.

I hated hunting. I hated hunting with a passion; had done so since the day I first laid eyes on a dead stag. I was five years old. It was around the time my mother had left, back when my father had been an unwed divorcé and his favourite pastime consisted of locking himself inside his study on the weekdays, only to reemerge on the weekends, reinvigorated to hunt. My aunt described him as a madman, obsessed with taxidermy and the art of skinning and preserving the meat of the game. A skill that had been passed down from his father.