Obsidian eyes
-all for...fun?°
.*TW: death, mentions of insects, hunting
*2 min read
I was watching Bambi when this idea popped up in my head
A beautiful fawn is born. She roams the forest with tiny steps, still shivering and weak. She stops to glance at the colorful butterflies, one landing on its tiny black nose. She bolts trying to catch up with her mother. The coat is a masterpiece of camouflage, tiny white spots scattered across its brown fur. You could almost believe the softness was insulating her from the entire, sharp world. Liquid eyes reflecting the sun beams as she collapses, exhausted from the journey. Curled up against her mother, she lets out a huff of air and falls asleep. When the sun sets, the onyx night gets cruel.
Then, the snap was not the sound of a twig breaking underfoot, but something deeper, final.
The sound was shockingly loud, not a natural crack of wood, but the thin, tearing sound of metal. And then, the worst part: the sound of the hunter’s boots crunching away over dry leaves, fading quickly, leaving the magnificent, fragile thing to rot for no purpose at all. Just because it was fun to hunt.
The wide, liquid eyes are now merely glass, obsidians reflecting the indifferent canopy overhead. The muscle that once gave it grace now holds the posture of stone. The beauty is gone. Blood seeps into the green moss below. Scavengers have already begun to claim.
Where there was once the faint, sweet scent of milk and damp fur, there was now a heavy, metallic announcement. The crowd of the forest, the insects, the unseen worms, the magpies and crows sensed the shift in status faster than the eye could register it. The fawn was no longer a creature to be avoided; it was a delivery. But the mother would not move. She stood beside the still fawn. Her muzzle nudged the pale, unresponsive hide, a silent desperate plea. When she finally backed away, it wasn't a retreat but an exile, leaving her own scent of grief pressed into the blood-dampened moss.
