The Prison of Ego

The dark paintings stood in a shaded corner of the odd shop. Moonlight beamed through the falling autumn leaves. Three hunters dressed in black long coats. Dead leaves crushed beneath the hoes of their horses. Their hats caged their heads. They rode after a dear of the majestic horns which went up like the branches of an oak tree. Their long muskets with dark brown wood, and shining metal, pointed at the deer like spears. They whispered to her and she answered. To much of the surprise of the owner, Jennifer brought the painting and brought it home. She stared at it until the moon consumed the sun, and at midnight the painting called again. She stretched out her hand, and a dark green tree root pulled her in. The dear went by her, and the three hunters stopped before her. She coughed from dust and cleaned the leaves.

“A new prisoner,” said the hunter with the brown coat. “I am Arthur.” His mustache reached his cheekbones, and he reached the height of six foot five. The other hunter with the dark coat nodded with his hat. “Michael,” he said.

“We don’t have any time to lose,” said Arthur. “You ride with Michael, now hurry.” Michael gave her a hand, and her eyes locked with his. (Michael visualization).

“Why are you hunting the dear?” she asked as her hair flew in the air.

“Because it keeps running away from us,” said Arthur.

“Really?”

“Yes,” said Micheal. “To be honest, I am quite tired.”

“We can get all the rest once we catch it.”

“Yes, sir.” He turned toward her and smiled. “You are quite beautiful.”

She shifted a brand of her hair back her ear. “Thanks.”

“Say, how come you are dressed like that? Are you a prostitute?”

“What? No! I’m dressed normally. It’s you guys that are dressed wired like some eighteen-century vampire hunters.”

“Don’t you mean the current century, young one?” said Arthur.

Her eyes sucked in and her mouth hung open for a minute. “You guys have been trapped here for four centuries?”

“Guys?” said Michael.

“What do you mean four centuries?” said Arthur.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“It’s the twenty-first century.”

Michael pulled the strap of the horse, and it stopped with a heigh. “What?”

“Boy, do not stop,” said Arthur as he raced ahead. Michael strapped the horse, and it kicked the ground.

“We are the greatest hunters that ever lived,” he said. “That dear can’t be running from us for four centuries. You are lying.”

“How did you get in here, anyway?” said Jennifer.

“We followed the dear in,” said Arthur. “How did you get in?”

“I guess, I followed you.”

“You should leave,” said Micheal. “

“No, I won’t leave until I find out what’s going on here.”

Micheal chuckled, and she asked, “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. What makes you think that you can find anything?”

“You don’t know me.”

He smiled. “Do you?”

“I….” She frowned, and a noise like thunder sent a chill through her body.

Arthur growled. “Missed again.” The dear scurred on his feet and turned around the corner. Micheal aimed and shot, but it hit a tree bark. “Ten million, sixty thousand, three hundred and five.”

“What?”

“The number of shots I missed,” he said, and he smiled.

“That’s some dedication,” she said.

“At what point does dedication turn into obsession?”

“If you want to turn back,” said Arthur, and he lashed his horse so hard that its scream echoed in the empty forest. “You can.”

“I think I am past that point.” He glanced at Jennifer. “But you?”

“I won’t leave,” she said.

He strapped his horse, and it roared, kicking the ground. “As you say.” They chased the dear for days, but the night never ended. They walked in circles, the dear always took the same path, jumped over the same obstacles, and doughed the same bullets. The same trees tired her eyes. Their grey leaves burned into her eyes. But one time, Michael shot, and the dear laughed as it turned around the corner.

“Wait, why didn’t the dear left?” she said.

“What do you mean?” said Arthur.

“Why did it escape the painting? Why is it just running in circles all these years?”

“I don’t understand,” said Michael. Jennifer climbed down and waved him to climb down too. She climbed the horse again and grabbed the strap. Michael climbed on the back. Arthur chuckled, and she said, “What?”

He shook his head. “Now, what?”

She lashed the horse and it ran like the wind. Her hair flew like a ship’s sail. The white as snow dear came in the distance. His horns twinkled like the stars. As they drew close, she put her right foot on the horse. She locked her eyes on the dear.

“Jennifer!” Michael shouted as she lept on the deer like a lioness and they rolled on the ground. She placed her right knee on the dear’s neck and wrapped his legs with her arms. The dear struggled like a fish fresh out of the water, but she pinned its neck with her knee.

“Speak!” she said.

Arthur stopped his horse beside her and jumped down. “It cannot speak.”

She grabbed his musket and pressed its eye. “Speak or I’ll end this game of yours.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll speak,” said the dear.

Michael drew near with wide eyes. “By God, it speaks.”

“Oh, yes, I speak,” said the dear. “I speak quite fine, thank you very much.”

“What is this?” said Jennifer. “Where are we?”

“We are in a painting. I never thought you humans would be so stupid. For four centuries these two idiots have been chasing me. How do feel, ah?”

“Tired,” said Michael.

“Yeah, that's what you should feel. See, I won. Ten million, sixty thousand, three hundred and five to be exact. I’m the greatest dear ever. You cannot hunt me. You can never hurt me.”

“I caught you,” said Jennifer. “Fairly easily.”

“Yes, but you are not here to hunt.”

“Did you make this painting?”

“No, I jumped in it to save my life. But I don’t know who made it.” He laughed a cracking laugh, and a chill ran through her body. Red veins enveloped her eyes, and her knee loosened. “You will never get out. You are nothing.”

She dragged herself back until she hit a tree. Her body quaked, but Michael grabbed her right arm. “Jennifer, listen to me. You can leave now. The door is always open. You only have to wish it.”

“What am I if I can’t solve this mystery? The story can’t end like this.”

“You are more than this mystery.”

“I can’t lose from this dear.”

“Will it tell you now what is success? Of how you should you live your life?”

“Come with me,” she said and she drew close.

He straightened himself. “I already told you I am past that point.”

She stood, and whispered, “How do I….”

“Only wish it.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The crunch of the dead leaves turned to a thump on the marble floor. She opened in front of the painting. In it, a hunter with a dark long coat looked straight into her eyes and smiled.