The Most Dangerous Game
I've only been hunting once in my life.
Lost in my thoughts, I waited in silence and suspended disbelief: my fingers gripping the cold metal—would I have to courage to act when the time came? The frigid air ripped through me with each breath I took. The steady beat of my own blood pounding in my ears mocked me: coward!
Although it was not yet dusk, the woods were dark. Fitting, I thought, considering our darker purpose. Nature was protecting her own; I could hear the disdain in her voice as she greeted us. The trees all but ignored me as I trod carefully among them, head down, eyes scanning earnestly for signs of our quarry. Was it too late to seek reconciliation, to shrug off the role of predator? Perhaps the sun would shine again once I explained how innocently I had been swept up in the scheme when it had first been proposed, how I had not really considered that my adversary would be defenseless, how I did not mean to insult or injure the friend that so many times had granted me solace and peace.
But how could I face my friends with these childish thoughts? No, the grand adventure must be faced, endured…conquered.
There! In the underbrush! In one moment it would all be decided—I must find the courage!
With a burst of energy, I bellowed the cry my guides had taught me and my hands of their own accord deftly handled the flashlight. The remorse and moral dilemmas were pushed away by the rush of adrenaline: I was acting purely as an instinctive animal now.
But I failed. There was only emptiness.
To this day, I am haunted by memories of that elusive snipe.
