The Last Gift

The bones of a buck lay beneath my feet. It’s eyes have been removed yet still I feel as though it stares. Stares as I grab its antlers and drag him off the porch into the house. He now lays on the carpet. And I can only be thankful that he wasn’t brought back bloody. Because as much as I tried to clean the blood off the carpet from the last one, the stain still remains. A reminder.

We hunt the grazers, the defenseless creatures that dare not eat another being of their kind. They bow their heads to nourish their bodies, never letting pride overcome their soul. How different from them we are. We kill, then eat with our heads high. We murder, then display the dead. We keep our souls out of the light so our egos can thrive in the darkness. 

From time to time these sorrows creep into my head. I send a silent prayer above for the ones whose bones I now hold. The bones that I must now hang on the tree with the others. I’ve said prayers for them too. From branch to root, the bones fill the tree's bark. We must soon choose a new tree to adorn, for space on this one is becoming scarce. Thankfully, I managed to find a spot large enough to house the bones. And for that I send another prayer. We hang its bones and bury its skin. The bones are a symbol of strength. The burial is to give dignity to the dead. A personal ritual I’ve committed myself to fulfilling. I hiked into the woods with a shovel in my right hand and the coat of skin in the other.

I knew I reached the clearing when I saw mounds of dirt. One lay beside each carcass that was previously buried. After two hours of digging another has joined their company. This small clearing has become a cemetery for those that have met their end at my father’s hand. Allowing their bodies the ability to rest is the only thing stopping me from becoming as corrupt as my father. It is the only moral I may still hold sacred. The only act of decency that gives me the courage to keep this place a secret.

Through the trees, bright beams of sunlight leave me blinded. It sits solemnly between risen and rested, alerting me that it is time to return. Here is where I part with the dying and return to the living. Away from the hills and toward the house. 

When I enter the house I stand frozen at the doorway, surprised by the sight of my father sitting on the couch this early in the day. His shotgun is laid across his lap with the chamber open and a pack of bullets on the seat beside him. My absence is not questioned, instead he nudges his head toward the bow and arrow in the corner of the room. An unspoken command— “get your stuff, we’re going hunting.” I obey by slinging the bow across my back and placing arrows in the quiver. I’ve always preferred the bow and arrow over a gun. It’s silent, unexpected. No chance for your prey to prepare for the final blow. My father wanted his prey to be filled with fear before they met their end. And fear was the look in the deer’s eyes when my father pulled the trigger. A moment later the deer fell over on its side, sending a loud thud echoing through the forest. 

“And that”, he’d said to me, still holding the loaded gun, “Is the deer’s last gift.” 

I was always under the impression that a gift was something someone wanted. Something that would bring joy to the receiver. I didn’t understand how death was a gift. Although I suppose some do find comfort with the end that releases suffering. But this did not seem like relief for the deer but rather an achievement for my father. He found pleasure in this animal’s pain. He’d killed it, and left a fortune of pride in its wake. 

He took long strides toward the deer, his gaze intent on the animal's still warm body. A grin spread wide across his face giving his features a modicum of innocence despite the barbarity of the act. He looks like a child who has just won a game, eager to collect their prize.  

“Well, come on now dear,” he shouts over at me from across the clearing, “help me bring this thing back home.”

He held on to one antler, and I the other. A fifty year old man and a twenty year old girl, pulling dead mass that is double their weight. 

The house sat alone on a hilltop with a short metal fence around its perimeter. Its only company is the forest and the savage creatures that call it home. Some would call them beasts, but I think those lay in my presence. The true beast is not hidden behind branches and leaves. The true beasts are waiting inside the house. And I wonder then if the fence is there not to keep the animals out, but to keep us in. A cage we have willingly entrapped ourselves in. That is certainly what it feels like when we drop the deer onto the carpet and close the door behind us. 

After several years of doing the same thing a routine has formed. A knife is needed for the next step. Fortunately, I was never required to complete this part, I only have to watch. The knife was warm beneath my palm before I loosened my grip to hand it to my father. He lifted the deer’s gum and brought the knife close. I flinched, always dreading the gore despite the countless times I’d seen it. But no blood oozed and no knife stabbed. His hand was shaking, uncontrollably. The knife wasn’t inside the deer, because he couldn’t put it there. I watched as he attempted again, breath heavy, as he used his free hand to try and tame the trembling one, but it still wouldn’t stop. His jaw clenched tight before throwing the knife into the living room. The knife flew across the room until it stabbed straight through the couch. Without speaking a single word, my father stood up and went to his room, slamming the door once he was on the other side.

His behavior was disturbing but not shocking. My father has always been a passionate man. Emotions tipped the scale, weighing down rationality. He loved with fervor and kills with fury. I’ve seen the former when he was with my mother. He smiled when he was with her, glowed when he kissed her, laughed when he spoke to her. This was when he was happy, filled with bliss every moment in her presence. But when she died, so did his joy, and in its place came rage. 

A deer caused her to have an accident. It ran into the road and slammed through the windshield. I went with my father to see the damage. The windshield was gone, shards of glass lay all over the interior and exterior of the car. And in the seat where my mother sat only five hours earlier, was a deer. Antlers protruded through the open window, hind legs resting on the passenger seat. Beyond the deer in the backseat was a toy I had wanted for my birthday that was now only two days away. We lived nowhere near a store that sold such an item, which meant she had to drive far to obtain this gift. Tears welled in my eyes, as realization took its aim straight at my heart— She’d died because of me.  

The more I stared, the clearer the image of my mother laying dead appeared in my mind. And the longer I stood, the stronger the smell of the deers now decaying body. Nausea overcame me. With two of my senses taken out, I relied on the others to keep me at bay. Touch— the denim fabric of my jeans. Taste— the deer I ate last night for dinner. I can’t believe I ate deer last night. Nausea unsettles me. All at once, my sight, smell and taste came back to me as I projected vomit onto the hood of the car.  

He opened the front door, pulled out a blade from his pocket, and started carving out a tooth from the deer’s mouth. The movements were quick and the cuts were deep. Piercing the top and then once again moving into the deer’s rotting gums. I pulled my sweater tighter around my body, suddenly feeling a chill in the air as I watched him carve. His hand stopped moving when a chunk of soft flesh with a tooth attached fell into his hand. Lifting the blade back up, he detached the tissue residuum from the tooth and put it into his pocket. 

“A reminder,” he said to no one in particular. 

When my birthday came a few days later there was no cake or balloons; No candles or songs; The day was void of festivities. The only time he acknowledged that it was birthday was when he threw the toy my mother had bought me and said “Here, this is your last gift.” 

I was only six years old then, too young to fully understand but old enough to feel the pain. My mother was gone. In death, life has left her, but she has not left life. I keep her here in this world; I wear her shirts as pajamas, I use her brush to comb my hair, and her perfume to smell her scent. These things are parts of her that she has left behind. They are not her, and they will not bring her back, but they hold the memories of a woman— A woman who once lived, a woman who once loved, a woman who once struggled, a woman who once was a mother. My Mother. 

Drops of water from my wet detangled hair creep down my back, only stopping its trek when the cotton of my t-shirt absorbed it. The sensation was uncomfortable, one trickling drop after another against my skin. It was just like blood dripping down fur. The beige wall in front of me seconds ago was gone, and all I could see was images of deer. The deer in my mother’s car, the deer my father shot, the same deer that lays a few feet outside my door with one hole making it bleed and bleed and bleed and bleed. One deep breath and I was once again staring at the beige wall, inhaling the rich scent of jasmine and peach. I drowned in the smell until my fears were devoured by the silence and my fatigue was consumed by sleep.  

The tantalizing chorus of Robins and Blackbirds wakes me with the company of dread. Dread remains my companion as I rise from bed, and dress in myself in a sweater appropriate for a crisp fall day. I complete chores while he remains asleep in the room next door. Beginning with laundry, I head to the river with a basket of clothes. 

Within the company of nature I feel more at home than inside that house. The trees have become friends I’d never had; the river the siblings I’d never gotten the chance to know. I wonder if they would have looked like me. If their hair would have been as black or their eyes as deep a shade of brown. The water ripples and my reflection distorts. Even in my thoughts nature has forbidden them from existing. So selfish, how lonely it keeps me. 

I grab the basket of clothes and begin to wash away their red grime. The cloth becomes drenched as I drown it repeatedly in the river. Every scrub uncovers the fabric underneath the crusted blood. Blood I spilled days ago gathers in my hands. It never seems to leave. 

My gaze breaks free of the shirt and moves toward the water. It is no longer clear enough to see a reflection. Red. Blood. Everywhere. On my hands, in the river, in the clothes. And cleansing the fabric is the easy part, it’s the sins I’ve stained on my soul that can’t be so easily washed away. 

With the clothes now clean, I fold them over a rope I've hung between two trees. The grass feels wet beneath my bare feet. Droplets of dew on grass burst like bombs when stepped upon by the tips of my toes. Its moisture is regained when the water from soaking wet clothes drips down from the line they hang. My ankles remain dry despite the dripping water above them. As dry as these clothes will soon be. Dry enough to have to wash them again too soon. I pray the sun does not shine bright. I pray for clouds and rain. I pray for fog or a humid day.  

I grab another article of clothing from the basket and hang it over the line. But this time it is not water that falls. A tooth with a knotted piece of string through it, falls out of a pocket and lands on my toe. I stumble back, from both shock and pain only to then trip and scrape my foot on the jagged end of a rock. Wells of blood prevents me from visualizing the damage of the cut, but it has cut deep enough to hinder my ability to walk on it. I limp up the hill to the house, hobbling along the mountainside until I walk up the porch steps and enter through the front door and where I am greeted with barbarity.   

The couch is torn to pieces, a puzzle that can not be repaired. Springs and screws lay loose, scattered on the floor. The culprit of this victimless crime sits next to the knife wounded couch. His eyes are sunken and the skin around them has begun to sag. Skin creases formed lines along his forehead and down to his chin, where the hair has grown to be so long that knots form between the strands.   

He had aged years in the span of time he’d been diagnosed. But the illness had only done to him physically what his pain had been doing internally for years— stripping away pieces of identity. 

His line of sight meets my gaze but I am not sure he notices the sweat on my skin or the blood running down my foot. Lifeless eyes, emptier than our fridge, pierce through me, opening a wound I’ve spent years stitching. And as much as I hate the man he’s become, I love the man he was. But that person has not existed for a long time, and with another year marking the anniversary of my mother’s death, there’s no chance of him coming back. The disorder surrounding us was proof of that. 

“Where is it?” He asked angrily. His face was red, his body shirtless as he stared through me. 

“What are you looking for?” I answered with caution. 

He stood and walked toward me. I froze. He was a wolf, sleek and menacing as he strutted across the wood floors, only stopping when his face was an inch away from mine.

 Now he looks at me. And when I stare back, his amber eyes seem to soften when he says  “I need it, it’s a reminder of what they did to her. A reminder of the only reason I wake up everyday.” 

As soon as the word “reminder” left his mouth, I knew what he had lost. He’d worn it around his neck everyday for the past fourteen years to remind him– a string with a tooth as its pendant, the tooth of the deer that killed my mother. 

“We’ll find it,” my voice cracks, not for empathy but at the realization that I am not a reason for him. His words have wounded me, cutting deeper than bone. 

Neither of us say anything for a second longer, until he notices the blood beneath my feet and says “Get that cleaned up dear, we are going on a hunt.”  

I wash the cut under cold water and see my skin has ripped from heel to toe. Pain seizes my body as the bandage rests tight around the injury, making it difficult to walk. I somehow manage to make it to the porch where his elbows rest on the ledge beside the wooden bird statue. My reminder.  In a matter of minutes he’s transformed from a sick aging brute to a well groomed huntsman. He’s become a sculpture, so perfectly crafted. Each piece is intricately carved to perfection but so delicate in its nature, one wrong move and the entire display will shatter. And when it falls, I will be the one under the wreckage.

We walked our usual path into the woods and only had to wait a few minutes before a deer came into view. My father raised his gun, ready to shoot the animal ahead. 

But bullets were fired at the tree instead. Over and over. One loud bang after another. Shots were fired aimlessly, leaving trees bruised and grass polluted. He stood unalike he would when hunting; His feet unsteady, his breath uneven, his movements unpredictable. 

When the loud boom of gunshots came to an end, I lowered the arms I had raised above my head. With my view of him now cleared of any obstruction, I could see the fire in his eyes and the tears glistening around it. His grief was dowsing the rage that otherwise would have set the world aflame.  

He couldn’t do it. He didn’t have enough strength to hold his gun steady, or to pull the trigger delicately. So I would have to do it for him. 

Finding another deer was not as easy as the first one had been so we had to glass. Glassing is a large part of the hunt. This is the waiting, the watching, the stalking. It only takes seconds to kill the prey but can take hours to find and target them. My father hates this, I can tell by the inability of his eyes to stay forward and repetitive tapping of his index finger on his knee. Eyes travel left and right, scanning the marked trees, fingers move up and down, grazing the gun’s trigger. Contrailry, I was the image of calm: eyes forward, observing for movement, hands steady, with a firm hold on the bow. The waiting was my favorite part. It was the only moment where I didn’t have to touch or see blood. Waiting allowed me time to think and clear my head of the day’s previous morbidity. 

Two hours passed before a deer finally appeared before us. Atop the deer sits a Robin. So tiny and fragile upon the flesh of such a large being. The bird turns its head up and stares straight at me. Its tiny black eyes staring directly into my brown ones. 

Years of hunting have made me inured to the inhumanity of the act. Lives I have once thought twice before taking, have now become nothing more than a tiresome task. I have killed enough deers to drown myself in their blood. But right now, my hand hesitates to release the arrow. 

My father senses my reluctance and whispers, “What are you doing? Kill it.”

Before I have the chance to follow through on his command, leaves rustle south of our location. One look at the sky and I know we’ve stayed out for far too long. The setting of the sun means we are no longer the predators in this forest. In the darkness, we have become the prey. In the night the true beast come out. 

A wolf appears from behind a tree, the beast responsible for the rustling leaves. He lurks toward the deer and the Robin. Its head hangs low but its amber eyes stare straight up, as if already devouring the meal in his mind. I’ve heard stories of the wolves in these forests. Of how their bodies are bigger than some of our houses. Or how their growl is louder than our church bells. The rumors were an exaggeration, of course, but they were not too far off. The wolf was terrifying. His fur was an intricate pattern of black and white that hovered mere inches from the ground. His teeth looked sharper than the tip of a blade. The ground shook at the sound of his growl.

But the deer was not frightened and the robin was not intimidated. They stood together in solidarity against their mutual adversary. The deer did not run and the Robin did not fly. They remained in place, a protest to the hierarchy of nature. 

The wolf bent its body forward and raised its hind legs. It was going to pounce, kill, and feast on the defenseless duo. I raised my bow, took aim, and released the arrow right into the wolf’s heart. 

With one arrow I’d taken down the beast. His body made a loud thud as it fell to the ground, scattering nearby leaves. That is a wolf’s weakness, they think power means protection. But power doesn’t keep you from being killed, it only makes people want to kill you. The wolf whimpered, helpless and in pain, his sovereignty stripped. And it was only when its anguished cries came to a stop and his eyes shut one last time, that the Robin flew off the deer, into the sky, and the deer ran away, into the woods.

Wolves never travel alone. When there is one, there are many. A pack. And I just killed one of its members. More leaves rustled in the same direction the last wolf had come from. The wolf that was now dead. The beat of my heart sped as the sounds got nearer. 

“We have to go,” I whispered, rising slowly from the crouched position in an attempt not to make a sound. Anticipating my father’s difficulty standing up, I extended my arm as a tool for him to stable himself. Seconds passed with my arm still hanging in the air, waiting. I looked down to see what was taking him so long. But beside me there was no man, only the gun that belonged to him. 

Panic seized me and sweat stuck to my hands like a tick on a deer. I looked around the forest, searching for any sign of where he’d gone or what has become of him. The view to my left and right were identical— trees that were barren, prepared for winter, and others that still had orange and red leaves, clinging to the beauty of fall temperament. Turning my back to the forest and looking toward the house I saw it then. Through the empty spaces of branches with fallen leaves I saw my father in the distance. He was already moving toward the house.

He’d left me. When night fell and the monsters came out my father had abandoned me. And I don’t think I’ve felt more alone in my twenty years of life than here in this forest. Even the wolves, with their ferocity and savagery, had a pack, yet I didn’t even have a pair. So selfish, how lonely he keeps me. 

There was no time to think, I had to run or as close to running as I could with the wound in my foot. The sky seemed to get darker after every hobble forward. The howl of a wolf rang through my ears, then another, and another until I could no longer count how many there were. I could no longer see my father in the distance, the only thing that stood before me were trees that became shadows under moonlight. I didn’t know if I was going to make it out of this forest, but I refused to stop going. I refused to die before ever living. The sound of a wolf’s snarl made me stop in my trek. Turning slowly, I reached for an arrow and lifted the bow. Its skin lifted back threatening me with its needle sharp teeth. I tugged on the bowstring but a combination of nerves and sweat made it difficult to pull back. The wolf stalked toward me slowly. I tried again to pull the bowstring, this time it reached my ear. I released my hand before my grip was lost. The arrow found its aim, piercing through the wolf’s eye. Before his body fell I turned my back and continued back to the house. 

 It is completely night now. The only indication that I am close to the house, is the curve of the valley that the house sits atop. Light pierces through the living room window, lighting the otherwise invisible path. I climb the all too familiar slope, battered and bruised, returning with more cuts than before the trek began. 

The porch stairs creak as I make my way up. Each step marks the daunting beginning of what will soon be an end. I’ve spent my life following his commands, listening to his lessons, fulfilling his desire for revenge and corrupting myself in the process. I thought if I did everything right, he’d have to love me. But I was wrong, the love he had for me died the same day my mother did. I loved him and in return was hated. I acted faithfully and instead was betrayed. I was wounded and he held the knife that made me bleed. 

The red door has no eyes but still I feel as though it stares. Stares as I turn the handle, push the door open, and enter inside. He sits on the couch in his usual spot with his head laid back. 

“What are you staring at? You want one?” he asks, lifting up the bottle of beer he holds in his hand. 

“You left me,” I say, not an answer to either of his questions. 

He waved his hand in the air before saying, “I knew you would be fine on your own. An old man like me? I would have weighed you down.” 

He thought he was doing me a favor by leaving me alone in those woods. 

“The only thing weighing me down,” I started while slowly walking toward him, “is this.” I pulled out the tooth necklace from my pocket. 

Even with the saggy skin I could see how his face dropped.

He reached his hand out for it, but I pulled it back before he could grab it.

“Give that to me right now,” he demanded.

I took three steps backward to create distance between the two of us. When he saw I wasn’t going to oblige he pulled the knife out of the couch. He raised his hand with the knife pointed toward me and repeated himself. 

“Give it to me right now.”

I ran to the bathroom and lifted the toilet seat up. The necklace dangled above the bowl. I was about to let it go when a knife struck me in the upper thigh. Blood trickled down my skin, soaking the denim fabric around my leg. Pain shot through me like a bullet, so strong, I lost my grip on the necklace and dropped it in the toilet. It floats there for a moment. My hand shakes as I reach up for the toilet handle. At the same he steps forward and sticks his hand in the toilet. But he’s too late. The necklace is gone. 

“And that,” I say gritting through my teeth, “is your last gift.” 

He says nothing before pulling the knife out of my thigh. I screamed. The wound ached feeling like hot vapor running through my bloodstream. He was going to stab me again. The blades tip only inches from my eye when I dodged its blow. The misplaced momentum he gathered made him plummet to the ground beneath his feet. An old man crippled by illness and a young woman hindered by injury lay on the ground, squirming like worms in a battle for the weapon. 

The tips of my fingers grazed the knife’s handle. I inched it closer toward me. The blood from my wounded thigh made the floor difficult to move through. My fingers finally closed over the knife. I did not want to use it, not killing people is one of the few acts that keeps me from becoming as corrupt as my father. But he grabbed my ankle and pulled. I twisted my head to look at him. The amber in his eyes looked like flames, sparked by hatred and anger. He wanted to use the knife, he would do whatever it takes to use it. I wouldn’t let him. 

I kicked my leg over and over until I no longer felt his hand around me. Once I was free of his hold, I took aim. A second later and my father was no longer squirming, he lay on his side unmoving. A knife stuck out of his chest, making it bleed and bleed and bleed. 

Adrenaline gave me the ability to run, blocking out any sense of emotional or physical pain. I ran out of the bathroom, through the front door, and kept running until I was back in the forest, only stopping when I reached the clearing. I laid on my side and placed my head on a mound of dirt. I felt nothing and everything at the same time. Too little and too much all at once. I shut my eyes and listened as the familiar call of a robin echoed from up high and the growl of a wolf rang out from below. And I understand now that evil can not exist without the good. Lightness can not exist without darkness. I understand now that the sun only rises because the moon lets it rest.