A dead animal on the side of the road does not feel when its carcass is scattered across asphalt. The body of a shot down doe does not feel when her skin is ripped from her body and placed upon a foam mantle. The snake with its skull crushed beneath a rock and boot does not feel its body’s writhing aftershocks. That mowed over frog does not feel its guts slipping from its belly.

The dead do not feel, or so the humans claim.

Decay spreads its fingers across the forest’s generous earth. It is not a killer. It passes over the newborn fawns struggling to stand as their mothers watch, brushes a touch over a fallen tree that stubbornly creeps its roots further into the dirt’s nutrients, and ignores a hearty grizzly just trying to itch its age-worn back. Decay is not a killer; it is a soothsayer, a singer of the ending and beginning, a preacher of destiny meant for all. It is kind.

The red fur of a fox turns golden in the dappled sunlight. Decay halts its exploration. Blood had long since dried to a crust around the wound on her twisted paw while metal bites down to bone. Her whines beckon Decay to start there, to sever the pain of her death and reminder of a trickster brought down by an old trick. It obliges.

You are not a fool, it tells her as the rot takes hold. Pink flesh turns black and slowly breaks down piece by piece, nerve by nerve. I have carried many over who have fallen for the same trap.

I was hungry, she cries, like her needs made her careless and foolish, It smelled good.

Hush, now. Decay cradles her still head in its palm and presses a kiss to her snout. You are safe.

**

Vultures spin in circles up above, their wings turning the sunlight into flickering lights through the leaves. Decay continues its work without rush or harshness. Fox cries at the stink she is making as the rot takes hold, with mold growing over her snout and her skin melting into the earth. Decay soothes her, tells her she is beautiful, but she disagrees. It runs a touch down her fur and tells her to wait.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Others will find you and see you as the most beautiful one in the forest, I promise.

The vultures continue their dizzying dance, but they hesitate a moment too late to take their turn. A small pack of three coyotes come across Fox, and their yips of excitement break the bubble of despair Fox’s death had created. They run to her body, push their snouts against her rotting sides, and chatter amongst themselves. Fox wails to them, Leave me, I am ugly and smelly, you will not like me.

One coyote takes a careful bite from Fox’s stomach and tears into the flesh, staining its maw a dark red. You are more precious to us than you think, little one, he tells her. Though he looks gruesome with her blood and flesh dripping from his teeth, his eyes are soft as he gazes at her unblinking eyes. We have been searching for food, and you caught our noses. The loveliest scent in the forest.

Another hovers at Fox’s back and scrounges around her spine. Be at ease, beautiful, we will help you be reborn. Your pain will end soon. The third lays by Fox’s head and kisses her upturned cheek, a declaration of its own as she soothes Fox while her friends rid her of her dead body.

Decay does not ease, even with the aid of scavengers. They are symbiotes, partners in a delicate cycle of life and death that they maintain day in and day out. It reaches its fingers into the torn open meat and continues its work. Soon, child, you will become one with life again. Your pain will ease and you will frolic through the forest once again.

Fox’s despair slowly unwinds itself as her body is torn apart. The gazes of the coyotes are soft and thankful, and their teeth bite down not with maliciousness but with a promise of a better future come soon. They work swiftly to guide her into Decay’s caress quicker, and litter her with reassurances and praises of how she will nourish them, how her coat still looks so beautiful bathed in sunlight. The one giving her kisses and gentle hushes says, Maybe we will meet again, and we can play together.

If she could, Decay has the impression that Fox would smile. I would like that very much.

By nightfall, only her bones remain on the damp forest floor. What little scraps the coyotes did not eat are fodder for mushrooms and fungi, who thank her for giving them a place to live and promise to send her off kindly.

**

Somewhere, in the depths of the forest, a lonely baby fox blinks up at a pack of three coyotes.