Doe

It is dawn when the doe arrives. The clearing is cloaked in a veil of soft mist, cotton edges swirling through dark boughs. The birch trunks are nearly invisible in the low light, masked by dense air, making Thomas' small hunting blind feel both crowded and exposed.

Cassandra Lee Shawver is a recent graduate of the Mountainview MFA program. She resides in New Hampshire with her long-suffering roommate, the resident ghost, and her cat.

Thomas is tapping his knee beside her. It is not a pleasant gesture. She knows that he’s doing his best to restrain himself. They had been in the woods for the better part of a week now, with nothing to show for their efforts. His efforts. Her efforts. Their goals no longer align, she knows. He wants a kill. She wants peace. She hates that hers is the only compromise.

         The rifle bobs in her fiance’s lap. Today was the day, he had said as he shook her awake, the darkness so oppressive she wondered if the earth had opened up and swallowed them. She had smiled daintily at him and repeated the phrase back. It is always best to agree with him. Always best to smile.

         She heaves a clouded breath, soft enough that even Thomas can't be offended by it, watches as it floats out the eye of the hunting blind and joins its fellows in the mist outside. The morning is cold and crisp, as it has been every morning of this trip. She doesn't know why she's here. She can’t stand the sight of blood, can't even bring herself to set mousetraps in Thomas' rotting shed. She suspects Thomas gleans a sort of joy from her discomfort. No, she is certain of it. She remembers the look in his eye when he said "they" were going hunting, how he waited eagerly for some protest, how disappointed he was when offered none. All she wants is that smile. All she wants is peace.

         She takes a sip from the thermos in her lap, savors the bitter coffee as it shocks through her. Thomas holds out his hand. She runs her tongue across her blunt teeth before passing the thermos to him. He drinks deep.

         She wants so much for this trip to be a failure. She wants so much for it to be a success.

         She tries to find peace in the seclusion of the forest. She loves the quiet rustle of leaves, the whisper of wind in her hair. There was a time when she would have loved this trip, when the press of Thomas' body in the dark would have felt safe and secure, when the gun across his lap would have felt like reassurance, not a threat. She doesn't know when that changed.

         The night loses to the dawn by inches and the shrouded trees become easier to see, shafts of deep grey piercing the milky air. She can hear the forest come alive, the trill of birds and squirrels rustling in the undergrowth, gathering, gathering. They know the warmth is fading. They know they are running out of time. Always running out of time.

         A bugle sounds, not far off. Thomas straightens himself, eyes flashing with excitement. Her back straightens with him. His eyes scan the dim tree line, but the sun is not yet strong enough to burn the mist away. Thomas presses a black tube to his lips and a doe's soft grunt crawls across the clearing, a siren's invitation. She thinks it sounds more like a growl.

         Leaves crunch, drawing closer, and Thomas repeats the steady pattern of calls. One hand is iron on the stock of his rifle. He has been denied a kill for too long. Her throat is dry as she watches him, gauges him, eyes on the gun. She doesn't notice when the shape of a deer appears before them. She only knows it's there when Thomas lifts the scope to his eye.

         At last, she follows his gaze. The mist is beginning to deteriorate, allowing shafts of gold morning light to wash through the trees. The green, dewy earth is coated in a layer of red and gold and brown. The rustle of rodents has given way to the sound of something much larger stepping delicately through the forest. She squints and sees it drifting a few hundred feet away, long legs and perked ears bobbing toward them. She does not see any antlers.

         Thomas sighs and lowers his rifle. He doesn't like to harm the females. It's a kindness he extends only to deer.

         The doe is standing on the edge of the clearing now. She is a shadow amongst the trees, unmoving. The mist pulls away at last and reveals the shape of her. She is still as death, strong legs rigid as the birches that flank her. Her eyes, dark and deep as midnight pools, are trained on the blind. There is something coating her gentle mouth, something vibrant and thick and red. Her pink tongue laps at her lips. She does not move.

         Thomas shifts his gun to his other knee and looks away from the deer to look back at her. He shrugs.

         "She's sure to lure something better," he says.

         "What's wrong with her?" She asks, unable to look away from the crimson coating her face, from the intensity of her gaze. It is not the look of prey.

         "Must've found a blackberry patch," he says. "Or a buck got a little rough with her. Happens sometimes during rut."

         He says it like it means nothing, like he is reporting the weather. She does not argue with him. He would know better than she.

         The doe continues her vigil. She doesn't even twitch an ear. Not even the birds and rodents are moving anymore. The stillness is a threat. A breeze blows through the clearing. They are downwind from the doe and the rush carries the scent of copper.

         "Is she watching us?" She asks. Thomas gives her a dark look and she falls silent again. Of course she isn't watching them, she thinks. They are camouflaged, and she is only a deer. Only a doe. She cannot see beyond what her eyes tell her.

         Still, the doe's eyes seem to pin her with predatory focus. They dare her to run, to flee, to give reason to chase. There is no touch of the gentleness she is used to associating with deer.

         She wonders if Thomas can sense it, too. She says nothing.

         She wishes she could reach out to him for comfort. There was a time, in the beginning, when he would have given it, when he would have met her anxious looks with sympathy and held her close, even if it meant missing his shot. Even now, she can't pinpoint the exact moment he stopped, but all that mattered was he did. His only love was for the chase. For the hunt. He held no excitement for what came after the capture.

         She had been captured almost a decade prior. There was nothing left of her to hunger for.

         But there was this hunt. He would be happy for a while after this. A month or two, at least. She can endure the damp and the cold and the unnerving eyes for a while longer.

         The doe is still watching them. Her legs seem...longer than they should. Her body, leaner. Her neck, slimmer. She begins to wonder if her eyes are being deceived, if the rising mist is playing with the light, making her look unlike a deer at all. She swallows thickly. She says nothing.

         A stick cracks and the sound shudders through her. It is the sound at the end of the world. Thomas' eyes leave the doe and scan the tree line. 

         She tries not to cry when she sees the buck approaching them. He is beautiful. Mature, muscled, proud. A rack of jagged antlers sway above his head. She struggles to count the points, but even she knows that he is perfect. A hunter's dream. He moves closer. She wishes he wouldn't. She wishes he would move faster.

         His nostrils flare, and she knows that he smells the doe. The doe smells him, too. She moves for the first time since her arrival, eyes snapping in the buck's direction, tearing herself away from the blind. The tension building in her gut releases, and she huffs a sigh. Thomas does not relax. His scope is trained on the buck. She can hear the insistent "come on, come on" under his breath. He is almost within range. She wonders if it will be quick or if Thomas will kill him slow. She prepares for both outcomes.

         The doe steps toward the male, ears forward, strange hooves delicately crossing the earth, almost unnaturally slow. The buck huffs once, shaking his head, attempting to impress her with his display. The doe stops and allows him to draw closer, closer. A hair's breadth outside of Thomas' scope. His finger is seconds away from squeezing the trigger. The entire forest is silent.

         The buck's nose touches the female's and instantly he takes a staggering step away as some scent reaches him. He bleats, moves to run, but not before the doe opens her mouth–a mouth that opens far, far too wide with teeth far too jagged and far too numerous–and latches onto his throat.

         The buck screams. He kicks, he flails, he tries shaking the smaller creature off, but she only sinks in further and pulls away, serrated teeth ripping his throat open. The screaming stops. A gurgle, a groan, and the great beast sinks to his knees. His sides are still heaving as she tears into him again, ripping away strips of flesh with her delicate, docile lips.

         The gun trembles in Thomas' hand. Her gloved fingers are clasping her mouth and throat. They do not look at each other.

         "What the fuck," Thomas hisses, blunt teeth clattering. "What the fuck."

         Blinking, he presses the gun to his shoulder again and stares down the scope. He does not hesitate as he fires three rounds into the doe. Puffs of red mist blend with the white vapor in the air. The doe staggers on her feet, strips of steaming meat clinging to her teeth as she once again turns her gaze toward the blind.

         For one horrible moment, she thinks that the doe will attack. She can see the thought churning within those dark depths. Despite his haste, however, Thomas' aim was true, and the doe collapses. She does not make a sound as her life's blood mingles with that of her prey.

         "What the hell was that, Thomas?" She asks, no longer able to keep the rising panic from her voice. She no longer cares about being quiet.

         Thomas doesn't look at her. He never does when he knows he isn't in control.

         "Rabid," he says. "Brain worm, maybe. Fairly common."

         She wants to keep silent. She does. She wants peace. But by God, there was no peace to be found here. She opens her mouth to argue.

         "Come on," Thomas says. "The buck’s still breathing. Let’s put the poor thing out of his misery."

         She closes her mouth, nods. Who was she to delay mercy?

         They step out of the blind. Thomas holds the rifle close. His steps are cautious, despite his confident words. She cups her hands over her face and breathes warmth over her runny nose. She stays close to Thomas but feels no comfort in it. She just wants to stay on the better side of the gun.

         Thomas stops beside the doe. Carefully, he nudges her little hoof with the muzzle of the rifle. She doesn't move. Blood dribbles from her lips and her ribs are still. There is no mist betraying her breath. Thomas grunts and moves toward the buck. His sides heave shallowly. Thomas clicks his tongue in disappointment and raises the gun to his shoulder once more.

         Her eyes are still on the doe. Thomas' back is on them, on doe and on woman, and her curiosity draws her near. She steps close enough to see the sharp points to her teeth, the talon tips of her hooves, the curved slits of her pupils.

         There is nothing pitiful about the sight. She is defeated. She is not prey.

         Her heart hammers in her breast as she turns to Thomas. The shot cracks out at the same moment the doe lunges for her. She doesn't have time to scream before the deer’s teeth sink into her calf. Fire lances through her veins and she waits for the inevitable rip of fangs through muscle, for her fresh blood to spray the oversaturated earth.

         The moment never comes. The doe releases her and shudders out her last breath in the amount of time it takes for the sound of the gunshot to fade. Thomas turns and stares at her quizzically. She realizes that he has no idea what happened. Blood trickles down her leg, but he doesn't notice. He only notices when she speaks.

         Still, she keeps silent. She tests her leg and feels little pain. She tells herself she'll go straight to the doctor when they get back. Thomas would never need to know. 

         Her leg throbs, but the bleeding has already stopped. Her cat has bitten her worse, she decides. Even this sick, tormented thing was gentler than the man she was prepared to promise her life to. She stares at his back as he measures the buck's rack, grumbling with irritation as he inspects the gaping ruin of the creature's throat.

         "Trophy's ruined," he says. "We'll need to head back to camp for the hand saw. We can take the antlers, at least."

         We. Always we. Her blood is buzzing now. He turns again, but not toward her. He is heading back the way they came, toward camp. But camp is a long way away. Everything is a long way away. Their life together feels like a foreign country, as distant and dead as the carcasses cooling at her feet. She doesn't want to head back to camp. She doesn't want to get the hand saw. She doesn't want to go home. She doesn't want to marry him. She doesn't want him.

         She says nothing.

         He pauses when he doesn't hear her footsteps behind him. He glances over his shoulder.

         "Let's go," he says. "We're done."

         She flexes her fingers. The morning air feels delicious on her skin now. She breathes in and tastes the metal on her tongue. It ignites something in her, something she has muzzled for far too long. Something hungry and ancient and waiting.

         Running her tongue across her jagged teeth, she smiles.