Prideful Kill

D. L. Charles

"Father! I'm so cold," the small boy said.

"I'm afraid! It is so dark out here. I wish I was at home - in my nice warm bed."

"Hush, my son," the father replied. "You must be brave. It is part of our pride. Things that scare you - you must put aside. To be a man - you must take it all in stride."

"Father, please explain what this is all about. Why are we here in the middle of the night? My teeth are chattering, my body shakes. My skin itches and my boots are too tight."

"I told you before. Be quiet, my son. We'll sit 'til the break of dawn. It's the primal way, the Rites of Man - to kill a deer. Hopefully a buck - at least a fawn."

"Father, why," the small child asked, as he laid his gun down upon the ground. "Why are we here on this foolish quest? To shoot a creature who does us no harm? It seems so foolish. At worst, they are but a pest."

"I'm losing patience with you, young man. The taking of life in this time-honored way, to stalk the deer in its natural wilds, to do it right - to make a kill, if all goes well you'll be a man today."

"But, Father, please," the small boy cried. "They look so pretty when I see them about. They are so graceful and lovely to behold. It makes my heart beat fast and I want to shout."

The father whirled around, his face twisted into a ferocious glare. "Did I raise a sissy? Is that what you are? Now shape up! Pick up that gun! Stop whining! It's just 'buck fever', it passes with the kill. Don't cry - don't you dare!

"Sh-h-h-h! There he is, in the morning's false light. Easy son, hold that gun steady. Don't jerk the trigger. Take up the slack. Look at him, holding so still. O.K. son, shoot when ready."

The 'bang' of the rifle shattered the dawn as the stately deer fell to the forest floor.

A thing of beauty was no more.

"Good shot, my son! Now that's my man. That is one deer whose life is done. How do you feel, boy? See what I told you, killing is fun!"

The man and the child stand over the body. The father slaps the son on the back as he wipes blood from the kill on the small face. "Well done, my son - now you are a man. It's a prideful kill."

He ignores the tears on the small child's face. As he walks away he doesn't hear the tiny prayer, or see the barrel of the child's heavy gun as the cross-hairs center on the father's broad back. Then, a murmur - "It was a harmless deer, Father, but a prideful kill!" The small trigger finger takes up the slack.