The Monster

Fawn finally released her breath and started to let her body relax. They had no idea she was there watching the truth of things. The Soldier moved on without any suspicion of her, which was a great blessing.

She watched the traumatized people make their way out of the building, each somewhat supporting the other while talking softly about the disastrous experience they had just gone through.

Theor, still sitting on the floor, was now pressing his severed ear against the open wound on the side of his head. Yet, he seemed more perturbed by the coming lack of food for his family than the ear he had to hold in his hand.

Fawn found herself wondering what the real meaning of having his family cut out of the Hunters’ food provisions was, but the thought was fleeting. She was not in a position to worry about the welfare of those who would commit her to death.

As she moved out of her rafter hiding space, things had calmed down a bit, and moving safely from the elevated position began to feel like less of a death sentence.

Slowly and very carefully she slid away from the relative safety of her hiding place.

There was a feeling of tension in the air, almost as though the people she had been watching had left behind fragments of their sorrow. She could smell them so clearly—blood, dust, sweat ... and something else.

Oh! Someone ... couldn’t hold it.

She quickly felt grateful that she had not done so herself, there were plenty of reasons for that kind of fear just tonight alone. She was pleased to have gone to the trouble of concealing her own evacuations. There was no doubt that urine was a strong smell, and she clearly worried that if she could detect it at distance, then surely the Cast could.

Quickly, she moved away from the pungent and revealing combination of odors, to mask herself against the dusty darkness of her surroundings.

The hunger-needle piercing her stomach was becoming so intense that she would soon have nothing more than curling up on the ground and whimpering to look forward to. She would have to find food one way or another.

The dark was providing good shielding from the risks of the Village. The sporadic Oil Brush lights threw thick shadows, telling her who was where, and in some cases, whether they were heading out of their homes.

Fawn knew that there would be very few who would risk leaving their home at this time. The Cast were always more numerous at night and, like the small gathering had discovered, they were without any empathetic moments. The Cast were filled to their edges with hatred just for the inconvenience of interaction with others. Wounding and killing people without any due process was, in all ways, normality.

Thankfully the atmosphere of martial law in the Village meant that there were not going to be random encounters in the streets. But most of the homes were filled with prying eyes and obsessive ears, just waiting to be the ones to hand her over in foolish hope for the good graces of the Cast in return.

Her mother had wanted to make the same move. With equal parts of sadness and anger, her mind swam.

I wish people didn’t think killing me would make their lives better.

Her willingness to steal what she needed was now taking priority.

After slinking past a few homes like a nocturnal prey animal keeping from the grasp of talons, she saw one that had no light burning in the window. She moved closer ... no sound either.

Concentrating her focus on an open window, she tried to see if she could find the same shimmering information she had found before among the rocks. Her determination was well rewarded. Eventually, she was able to see through the window and into the home. It appeared empty, she could hear no sound and see no movement.

Now it was starting to feel like there was nothing but razor blades in her stomach, so her drive was as strong as she had ever felt. With all the difficulties she had faced in her life, starving had never been one of them.

Moving faster than she should across the dirt towards the empty house, she started to hope that there was something good to eat within.

But at this point, anything edible would be welcome—even that terrible green vegetable she used to be forced to eat.

As she approached the house, she was suddenly stricken with the reality that she faced. If someone found her, she would have very few options.

Taking the last few steps up to the door, she tried the handle. It was locked. She had yet to remember that people were protective of what they had.

Laughing to herself about the foolishness of even trying to go in through the front door, she moved around the side of the house and worked her way towards the window space.

Given that like her own home, it had no pane, but rather just a rough-cut opening with a poorly secured shutter, the task of climbing inside was an easy one for a nimble youth. Remaining prepared the whole time, however, was less simple with so many variables. People might come from anywhere; those who lived here might return at any moment.

With no real certainty, she kept on and found herself inside one of the sleeping rooms. This home was bigger than her own: there was a hallway and space for sleeping rooms along it. The space she landed in was indeed empty as she had gathered.

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She breathed an audible sigh of relief, the first sound she had allowed herself to make since leaving her cave. It was calming in itself to be allowed a moment of the ordinary.

Passing from the sleeping room she landed in and onward to the hallway, she noticed a slightly sweet smell in the air. The fragrance passed as she moved down the hall toward the food preparation and storage area.

Frantically, she started looking everywhere for portable food, anything she could use to ease the ferocious cramping of her poor stomach.

Finally, she found some dried meat hanging in the back of a small cellar, dug out to protect food from the high heat.

Grabbing initially at handfuls, she realized how obvious it would be to those who own it if there was too much missing. With meaningful regret, she took a small amount from the reverse side of each hanging batch, and stowed it in the folds of her clothing.

Sitting in the bottom of the cellar hole, chewing on the dried spoils she had found, she finally started to feel like a child again, rather than a desperate survivalist.

It was nice to be somewhere truly sheltered for a change, although the feeling of apprehension was starting to creep in and take over—she had been still for too long now.

After one last search for something resembling childhood candy, she decided to move on and take what she had.

Carefully managed, it would see her through a few days, perhaps long enough to think of some other way to feed herself. This petty thievery was clearly going to become more dangerous than practical as time went on.

Walking gently back along the hallway, she caught that same sweet smell, and yet she was certain it did not come from the food preparation area. Curiosity was beginning to take over from prudence.

Then in an instant, a cold feeling starting in her feet began to creep up her legs. By the time it had reached her now-satiated stomach, she knew what it was. All at once she truly recognized the smell, it was soap ... the soap her mother used to clean her when she was a little child.

There must be a baby here or a—

Her understanding came a moment too late.

A petrified little boy emerged from one of the rooms having heard her movement. Smaller than her, no more than four cycles old, his face white and little fists clenched so tight all the blood had left his tiny fingers, he was clearly drawing breath to scream.

In one step, she crosses the distance between them, grasps both his hands in one of hers, and quickly covers his mouth.

“Please don’t make any noise.”

Hoping so much that he will listen and understand, she takes the desperate chance that the little boy has not yet formed his own prejudice.

In a world so clearly defined by its extreme laws and punishments, she wants so badly for him to understand her predicament and let her move on. She hopes to go unfettered, out and away into the darkness, to be nothing more than a momentary shock for him. Maybe just this once ... it all seems impossible, but she has to try.

Slowly, she removes her hand from his mouth, speaking as gently as she can.

“I promise I won’t hurt you. I’m just starving.”

With tears growing in her eyes, her voice begins to quake.

“Please understand.”

His eyes are wide; his breath frantic. The sweet smell of baby soap is being slowly replaced in her nostrils with the odor of sweat, and a building smell of something she is learning to recognize as fear.

Still for a moment, he looks at her with his dark-brown eyes, as if in pity or consideration. Fawn draws a slow breath and feels a small inkling of hope start to build.

Without warning the little boy realizes who has caught him.

“The girwl!”

As a look of recognition dawns across his face, he immediately draws a larger breath.

Fawn grasps his face again, sobbing.

“Pl ... please just let me leave ... ”

The boy frantically struggles to get her hand from his mouth. She has never been the bigger or stronger one before and now she is for the first time, and it leads only to the restraint of a smaller child.

She wants so badly to let him go. She knows what it’s like to be so terrified, and hates that she herself is now the hand of oppression.

I can’t hold him like this forever. Maybe I can talk him into silence. Maybe I can take him with me, or umm oh ... what do I do?!

As she thinks, the little boy becomes more and more distressed. He’s exhausted from struggling so hard to no avail. The initial shock is wearing off, being replaced by mounting anxiety. His heart racing, his whole body strains from the stress.

After a moment’s thought, she drags him to the window she came in through, looking outside to see if there is anyone around.

If I can just get away from the house maybe ... but, but tomorrow he’ll tell people.

Her thoughts becoming desperate, she turns and looks into his gentle eyes—now so filled with dread—an awful feeling swirling in her heart from hurting such a young child.

She removes her hand from his mouth to try again to entreat him to understanding. As she does, he gasps and heaves, crying as he begins to fall to the floor.

She catches him.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

His crying suddenly takes less of her attention. She can hear something ...

“No! ... ”

Turning to the shaking child, she brings her hand quickly to her lips.

“Shhhh. Please just shhh and I’ll go away.”

People passing by on the paths between houses are getting too close. His eyes flick to the window and he begins to make the noise she fears so much.

“MA—!”

Within a breath, she covers his mouth again. Tighter this time, making certain no sound leaks out. He struggles and fights her, but it means nothing.

Waiting for the people to go by, he manages to writhe around enough to knock against a small table. One of them looks towards the noise as they walk past, just a perfunctory glance, but all the same, Fawn is suddenly caught in horror.

What if they find me? Those people. That man ... the, the—

Her thoughts get the best of her, all that she has seen comes rushing back. She holds the flailing little boy with a hand at the back of his head to keep him from too much movement.

Her pulse now makes every other sound fade into the distance as she focuses all her acuity on the group shuffling past. No other sound matters other than that of the movements outside. Not the restrained rattling of the child in her hands, not the wind in the distance, not anything.

Such is her focus on searching for specific sounds outside, that she misses the sharp pop that comes from the face of the small panic-stricken child in her grasp, as his little jaw gives out.

So, when his screaming starts anew, her frantic hold on him continues and tightens, fueled by her fear that he is again trying to alert others.

She doesn’t know that it’s the result of a small boy who is in the most excruciating pain of his life. All she knows is that he is still making dangerous noises ... and so holds him harder still. Her strength makes it impossible for him to move or fight her force and singular focus.

Her obsession is so narrow, that the slow, hollow cracking sounds, that come in three terrible notes from the little head she holds, go unnoticed as well ... until the boy falls limp and lifeless in her arms.

–Garrick M Lynch–