[Also, I do apologize. This is quite overdue. Please forgive me]
He was crouched low in the dense underbrush, eyeing his target. His palms grew steadily more sweaty, and he gripped his knife tighter. Though he had done this before, he could never seem to stop his palms form sweating. He didn't mind so much, though--it had become the first sign of the incredible rush, that primal urge he had fostered so long.
It began long ago--by now, almost 40 years. He was just stepping onto the brink of manhood. Up to that point, he had led a relatively unfulfilling life.
Yet one day, he was a bit out of sorts and particularly bored, and something suddenly seized upon him. He had never felt anything like this before, so potent, so forceful, so natural. That was the strange thing to him: he was not a violent person by nature. But still, this desire, this lust for violence felt so natural. Frightened of himself and his feelings he sat bolt upright, and tried to push the feelings away. But they wouldn't leave; they were irritatingly persistent. He stood and paced, then began walking out of the door and into the world with no destination, still trying to expunge these horrid, base thoughts. He found himself at the park behind his house. He found a bench and sat down forcefully, frustrated. He put his head in his hands and wondered, Why?! when he saw the spider.
This was not just a spider though. It was a beginning, a spark, a leap. He watched it crawl along for a moment. He moved his foot and put his heel down near the spider. He slowly lowered the rest of his foot on top of the spider, crushing its body. There was a satisfying little crunch when he ended the creature's life. The dry autumn leaf that the spider had been on, yes, but it still fed the violent instinct rising within him. He was pleased. The urge abated for a moment but soon returned, stronger this time.
And thus the Hunter was born. There, at that park bench on a day in late October.
Now, it didn't go from spiders to the full-fledged hunting master that he was now. No, he escalated--like most criminals do. He wanted to kill something more satisfying, something impressive. He started with guns.
He went to target practice every day for a month and a half to improve his aim, though naturally gifted. Soon he began hunting animals in a nearby range, but it was not enough. He didn't know what else to do though, so he went on more and more dangerous hunts, each with bigger or more deadly targets. With each progressively thrilling hunt, however, his primitive aggression drive also grew stronger and stronger.
He always remembers the last time he used a gun. Oh, that was certainly scintillating! It was his most dangerous target yet, simply called the Hound. Now, this wasn't really a hound. Imagine a dog with the strength of a bear, but the speed of a fox, and clever too.
He was in the dense rainforest of the Amazon, walking as stealthily as possible, always alert to his surroundings, and also a wary eye out for his mark. They told him it was useless. They said you didn't find it; it found you. He ignored their warnings, confident in his abilities. He was wrong. He heard the rush of leaves too late, and the beast clipped his arm as he ducked. He got a shot off, but missed--which was rare. He saw the great animal turn to attack again, and dove sideways while firing his weapon toward the space he previously occupied. As he rolled, he heard a thump and something heavy sliding across the over-vegitated forest floor. He quickly faced the sound and saw the Hound lying still. It was nearly as big as he was, though it looked less frightening as a dormant creature on the ground than a dark blur. He approached the conquered target and began examining the evidence of his victory. He bent down to look at its claws while holding his own wounded arm. He felt a hot, moist breeze on the back of his neck as the claws extended and the paw flailed, knocking the Hunter backwards and his firearm somewhere into the dense foliage. He grunted as he collided with a tree, with a great, loud cracking sound his previously uninjured arm snapped.
He fell to the ground and rolled toward the lunging, feral animal managing to slide underneath both sets of lethal claws and behind it. As the Hunter ran from the Hound, it dug its claws into the thick trunk and swung its body fully around the tree, almost literally flying after its assailant. As it pursued the Hunter, the tree fell to the ground behind it, the trunk being almost completely severed through. The Hunter veered right, taking note that the Hound was favoring its left side--he must have hit one of its right legs. The Hound pursued, tearing through the vines and vegitation. The Hunter knew he only had moments before he would be overtaken, so he turned left hard, making a complete circle, now running nearly at the Hound. He jumped and grabbed the Hound's neck with his bloodied arm, barely missing the still-quick, yet slowed slash of his enemy, swung around the beast's body, and locked his broken arm around its thick neck.
Blood ran freely from one arm, and intense pain pulsated from his other, but he held onto the animals neck and his consciousness as tight as he could. The Hound tried throwing him off, but he held fast. It tried throwing itself into the wall-like trees, but the Hunter deftly maneuvered his body out of harm's way. With every violent motion of the Hound, the pain and blood pouring out of his arms increased. The great beast slowed, and slowed, and slowed and the Hunter could feel the life draining out of its body--the most satisfying sensation he had ever felt. Eventually, it had all been squeezed out, but the Hunter held tight for a moment more, then took out his knife, and slashed the Hound's throat, spilling warm, dark blood onto the disturbed mess of underbrush. He fell to the ground, exhausted but triumphant.
He would never forget the rush of pure adrenaline as the life drained out of the Hound, annulling his pain completely. Ever since, he searched for that feeling. And decades later, he still seeks to satisfy the primal urge to kill.
Never did he take a human life, however. Though he may have liked to, and nearly had on some occasions, he knew he must draw and maintain a line to keep himself in the right. Without it, he would just be another animal. He lived to hunt, not to be hunted.
He waited patiently in the thick foliage as he reminisced. not moving, his breathing imperceptible. A stag was slowly walking toward him. It stood about as tall as he did, the size of a large horse. Being perfectly still was crucial, and also nearly impossible. But he was good--good enough at least. He knew of no one else who could deer hunt with a knife.
The stag stepped right in front of him. He needed it to move forward, just a little. If it was walking, it would take longer to change pace than if it took of bolting from a standing position. His mark lifted its front hood and began to walk. The Hunter had him. He thrust his free arm forward and caught the stag around the neck, and was propelled onto its back by the forward momentum of the stag. He rode the deer for a short while before bringing his knife up to its neck and slicing cleanly across it.
The stag's front legs buckled and it hit the ground hard, throwing the Hunter off, who aimed carefully to avoid the antlers. He waited for the familiar feel of grass as he somersaulted to avoid injury, but it didn't come. Instead, he kept falling. Falling, for what seemed like thousands of feet.
He recalled his surroundings; he hadn't noticed a cliff anywhere nearby. He was too good for this. His end brought about by failing to obey the first rule of hunting: always mind your surroundings. How ironic, the greatest hunter in the world, felled not by a great beast, but by his own foolishness.
No, it couldn't be. He was too good for this!
He noticed that not only had he failed to master his terrain, but he now had no terrain to memorize and become familiar with. Darkness was all around him. He felt a pull in his core, dragging him downward, farther into the darkness, faster and faster.
So, this was death. His senses abandoning him as his mind emptied itself. He readied himself for the impact of whatever surface would be the canvas for his very personal splatter painting--he never was much for art. He felt this was a just end--he deserved this fate for his fundamental error. He accepted it as he fell and fell and fell, until finally... he stopped.
