The Best Hunter

This small town is a tight-knit community, trusting and thrown into discord. A hundred citizens with nothing better to do. The best sources of public interaction include spreading word about what Mary Ann on Mayberry Street puts in her homemade apple crumble, or who was last night with the town Casanova at the local watering hole. But when word gets around that 4 people have gone missing and found dead over the past couple months with no trace of a possible suspect, this all changes. What once was friendly, petty gossip is replaced with piercing, accusatory glances. It's easy to turn people on each other.

These frantic police are making the cases harder on themselves. They want to prevent another death so bad while still up in arms over the last body that they can't think straight. Folks thought the first two corpses were part of a gruesome animal attack. They snapped out of that real quick when another body showed up. It's like you can visibly see their heads spin. Not the brightest crayons in the box. It even took them over a week to get an ID on the body.

The most recent death was a remarkable masterpiece. A true work of art. even, my best yet...

My most recent quarry, affectionately referred to by the towns people as Minnie, was as mousy as her name. Watching her interactions with her family and schoolmates was almost nauseating. Wouldn't even put her foot down when others made snide comments. Pathetic and small, it makes you wonder how coaxed she could be into doing menial tasks. Her siblings certainly preyed on this trait. To the untrained eye, the tears of her brother and sister after her death seem as though they were the best of friends. I knew better. They treated her like the town's mangy dog that everyone ignored as it begged for the slightest hint of affection and care. Even her mother's wailing in the coroner's office was stiff and forced fabrication at best. People are so quick to jump into grief, they don't process the beauty in a corpse. They toss them into a hole in the ground, and try to "move on". And the process of grief is rather odd. Denial, anger, sadness. Unnecessary if you ask me.

Being old enough to leave home, she thought running away to the big city would save her life, but this ensured she would wind up in my grasp. Probably my easiest catch. She thought she could get away. She thought she would find a bus, start over, and find love. A dark, cold, metal shed out in a secluded part of the woods was not part of her plan. She didn't contrive to be shackled in chains and silenced by a piece of dirty cloth. Her problems at home seemed minuscule compared to my trap. Her quick thinking could have come in handy, and I truly believe that she would have succeeded in her escape, if she hadn't slipped up and stepped into a bear trap. Now I know what you're thinking, and the answer is no, I didn't set up the trap. The hunters in these parts must have forgotten about it this far into the woods. No matter, no one could hear her roar in pain. After fainting, I got her leg out and took her with me. I made sure her wound stopped bleeding. After all, I couldn't have her bleed out and die on me before I got the chance to cut her up myself. Cut off small sections of her bit by bit, and her crying agony was the most beautiful aria. How could I stop? Each captured and quivering body I ensnared had their own incredible timbre and truly, what a symphony to behold. I left the pieces of her scattered towards the outskirts on the opposite side of town in a field.

That's been almost a week now, and the itch started days ago. Restless nights of tossing and turning are increasing by the day. I guess it's time to add more to my repertoire, and I have the target to quench my thirst.

I noticed her one day cutting through the woods on the lit pathway, off to another part of town. Her long flowing red mane giving her away in the light. In fact, all the animals in the woods must have noticed her, or at least those with the same predatory eyes. I continually see her in the woods around dusk or later on the same path, but I don't know much about her. No matter, this was the time to cave. I needed to take her.

I the path where it's harder to see into the dense brush. It's a little later than usual, but with no other plans on my calendar, I stand guard and wait for her to come into view. In the middle of the silence I hear a small rustle in the bush a ways away and hear a high pitch shriek. A white and tan blur goes by and up into the tree next to me. A barn owl. I have never seen one in this area. The creature in its talons a reddish brown color. Looks like it caught a hare for breakfast. The feathers of the owl are so smooth. The ashy Grey and tan colors seem to be painted across its wings and head like water colors. Black spots along the cream color and small white spots over the tan and ash. He's so close, yet so quiet. Its large eyes, nothing but pools of black abyss with incredible sight. The tip of its beak like a blade, bloody from shredding apart the dead limp being that is pinned under him. The tendons stretching as it pulls pieces of flesh and muscle away. much beauty and wonder. The talons deep into the carcass as the owl continues with its meal, with such precise tears and minimal blood. A true master of its craft. The best hunter in these woods. Well, besides me.

Hearing humming in the distance, the owl wastes no time in relocating. Not a sound is as it takes flight into the dark night with its prey in tow, no chances of slipping out of its talons.

I can tell it's my turn to be stealthy. With a flash of red hair in sight, my hunt begins...