The Nature of Mercy
@literal-policedog
Those fucking unicorns.
Eight mornings in a row Lucille came down from the apartment above the shop to find the garbage cans knocked over. The varmints couldn’t just take what they wanted and leave. They made a game of it, shredding anything that could be shredded and scattering the debris down the alley, in front of the door, and into the street. The mess itself grated on her nerves enough, but worse was having to spend the first moments of her day picking slivers of garbage off of the dirty pavement. This time she’d had enough. Come hell or high water she was going to solve the problem.
As dusk fell Lucille took on the shape of her fur brothers. She left the door of the shop cracked, just enough to see and to catch the ever-changing scent profile of the street. Hours passed without incident. Lucille lay silent, watchful but relaxed, conjuring images of the ever-protective ranch dog. Then, when even the sliver of moon could provide no help to the darkening sky, Lucille heard them.
At their size the impact of their hooves against the pavement was little more than soft clicks. The unicorn herd moved as a loose unit up the alley next to the shop, carrying with them the scent of ruminant with just the faintest staticky tang of magic. Lucille tensed but did not yet dare move. They traveled with the slow caution that belonged to prey animals, not gathering speed until she guessed that they neared the proximity of the trash cans. With a great crash the cans fell, spilling their treasures to the thieves, and it was this noise Lucille used as cover to make her move.
Her paws made scarcely any sound as she sprinted out of cover and around the corner of the shop. A chorus of frantic bleats heralded her arrival as the terrified beasts scattered, bolting past her for the street. Instinct older than she was guided her as she whirled, too slow for the healthy adults but plenty quick enough to snap her powerful jaws shut around the haunch of a fawn. It screamed into the night, pleading for its mother to save it from the monster, but not one of the animals came to its rescue.
Sickening glee set Lucille’s eyes alight and satisfied some ancient need for blood, for the agonized yowls of the fawn which struggled against her. A rapid shake of her head thwarted its futile attempts to kick her. Another great shake and with a terrible crunch she felt bone give way between her teeth.
It was this sound, poignant and irreversible, that caused reality to return in a rapid tsunami of panic. Lucille released the poor creature and all at once stood, backpedaling from what she had done. The baby lay frozen with fear and agony. Hot red blood flowed unchecked from vicious punctures in its thigh and from the muscle perforated by bone, standing out harsh and gleaming in a manner abhorrent and beautiful. It gasped terrified breaths but could no longer do more than whine pitifully. Telltale red painted Lucille’s lips, her jaw, her tongue, down her neck and staining through her shirt from the fur underneath.
She had to clear the scene, and fast. Her story was unsatisfactory, her excuses weak, and while she could suffer through prosecution she didn’t want attention drawn to the shop for fear of something less than legal being discovered. Her hands shook as she bent down to scoop the fawn into her arms—an offense that was answered with an ear-splitting scream and renewed struggling. Heart pounding and breaking all at once, Lucille darted through the still-open door of the shop and shut it tight behind her.
The logical thing to do was mercy kill the fawn, dispose of it, and clean up the blood in the alley. But as it fought against her she found that she couldn’t find the strength to snap her jaws shut around its neck and give the final fatal shake.
“Shit, little guy.”
She carried it behind the counter and slid down to the floor with it. Her throat constricted and her eyes grew wet.
“I’m so sorry. It wasn’t your fault. You were just tryin’ to eat.”
The fawn did not relax but again ceased its struggling. Lucille could feel its heart beating underneath her arm; so rapid, fluttering like a trapped insect, terrified but tenacious. It wanted to live—who was she to take that away?
Instead of the killing she intended to commit she grabbed her phone from her pocket and dialed the first number she could think of. Rae used to be a cop; she would know what to do.












