The smell is worse than I thought it would be. It’s earthy and primal, like the soil was juiced, leaving behind a stickiness laden with the smell of decomposition. I put the gun down. My finger barely even reached the trigger. The doe’s eyes are still open, its body splayed on the orange fallen leaves, its blood seeping into the ground. My grandfather wastes time. He fumbles for his hunting knife, and when he finally finds it, over-explains what he’s doing. One cut, a thousand words. I wish he hadn’t. I was managing until the end, when he began removing the lower organs. He sat back on his heels, eyebrows raised. I tried to look over his shoulder, inching closer. It all looked the same to me.
“What’s wrong?”
“Well,” he said, and began making a wider incision. “It is the end of the season.” I didn't know what that meant so I kept watching. Before long he removed a large maroon sac, strangely shaped, and cut it open. My lip trembled as he removed it and said “You got a two in one,” and pointed to the fetus of a deer. My chest heaved, the air not reaching my lungs. I stumbled backwards into a tree, eyes glued to what I had done. I turned and threw up. I vowed never to hunt again.
I was 12.
The smell is still bad, but I'm not afraid to cover my nose this time. Guilt is clustered within my core. It's my first hunt in over a decade. Since the doe. But it’s with my dad. Pancreatic cancer took my grandfather from me. I never got to hunt with him again. But I'm here, in the same spot we hunted when I was a child. A deer came into the valley right as the sun was setting, just enough light to make a shot. My finger doesn't struggle to reach the trigger now. My dad’s watching me. I'm hesitating. It's a doe. I thought I could bring myself to pull the trigger. We aren't anywhere near the rut. It's impossible, I tell myself. The face of the unborn haunts me, and I begin to shake. A branch breaks behind me and I accidentally pull the trigger. My eyes widen, and my dad leans forward to look at my shot. The doe wanders thirty pained yards into the field, and collapses. “Clean shot,” he whispers.
She's a big doe. We don't take more than 5 minutes to field dress the deer. My dad spares no emotions, efficient as can be. But I look in her eyes the whole time. Will my clock be punched one day by a force lying in wait? He says he’s proud of me, for not letting fear beat me. I don't hear him. As we leave I excuse myself to nature’s restroom and walk further into the woods. Out of sight I throw up, again and again. I get in the truck like nothing happened. I don't know if I'll hunt again.
I'm 24, but in my heart I'm all the same.
~~
Kate O’Sullivan has published a few pieces in 2025, including sci-fi with NUNUM, literary fiction with Sardine Can Collective, and has upcoming publications with Flash Fiction Magazine and Graveside Press. Outside of writing, she draws much of her inspiration from her work as an archaeologist, specializing in myth, and magic.
