Page 9 of Blood Queen

“We’ve been over this. I just… can’t,” he says finally.

I swallow thickly. “You’re the only thing that keeps me… myself. Grounded. Please,” I whine. “Please, say yes.”

Another groan followed by steady breathing and silence.

“Fine. I’ll text when I’m available.”

The line goes dead as I breathe a sigh of relief. The kind of hope that kills the tiny shred of unease in my gut and leads me straight to trouble. They say history is told by its survivors, but what would you trade for thetruth? Your soul? Your freedom? Your chance at true love?

6

Past

Judging by the light outside, it’s around four am. I raise my wrist and tilt the face of my watch toward the window so I can read it. Thirty minutes to five. I pull the cover up over my head and groan. There’s not even enough time to go back to sleep before the day starts.

I love summer, but I hate the heat and humidity. Even though the sun is not quite up, it’s already warm outside. The deer will be feeding soon, and it’s better to wait them out rather than in the evening when it’s sweltering hot and the mosquitos and gnats are buzzing around you.

Papa’s picked crossbow for hunting today. I sigh. It’s not a shotgun, but at least you get to aim and fire like one.

“Show me,” he says. And as always, in our small barn, I do what is asked of me.

“To begin with, I tighten all screws and bolts in the stock, bow and sight,” I say as I do so. “Next, I check the bowstring to be sure it’s centered, then I sight it in to make sure it’s accurate.”

Papa nods at me, a tiny grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. We load our gear and head out into woods.

When we reach the small clearing where the deer like to graze, we stop and set up shop. I place the crossbows stirrup on the ground and slip my foot through it firmly while I cock the bow.

Grabbing the string with both hands, I pull it upward using the same amount of force on both sides all the way to the cocking mechanism. I hear a loud click, which lets me know to place a bolt in the groove, making sure that the end of the bolt touches the string. I line up my shot precisely and click off my safety.

Hunting takes time.

Patience.

Papa and I don’t talk. We wait, we breathe, and we take our shots when ready.

A doe stutters into the clearing—finally—and Papa nods to me. It’s to be my shot. This kill is mine.

Slowly and gradually, I squeeze the trigger. You might think a crossbow is silent. It’s not. The ping is quite loud in the quiet of the woods. The doe pops her head up as the string jumps, but it’s too late.

My shot hits her behind the shoulder, clear and clean.

Armed with a knife and gloves, Papa and I wait for the doe to fall before heading over.

“You’re up, Kid,” Papa says when we reach her. She lies so still, eyes open, watching, that it unnerves. I’d rather not have to see her, her eyes or face or really any of the death part.

“Up for what?” I ask.

He hands me the knife in response. I’ve never field dressed a deer before and I don’t really have any inclination to either, but what Papa says, I do.

“Cut from sternum to groin, penetrating the hide and the membrane below. You should be able to feel the difference between the hide wall and the membrane or muscle wall that holds the innards.”

I groan and kneel next to the large doe. With a swift motion that I’ve watched Papa do a hundred times, I cut into the deer.

“Pull the guts out, starting from the groin while also cutting the membranes. Then yank them free,” he directs.

Blood. Lots of it. There is so much blood. It coats my hands. I push down the nausea bubbling in my gut and do as he says.

“Cut the center of the pelvic bone by pounding your knife through. Then cut the skin around the anus and pull the colon out of the body cavity.” My gloves and forearms are covered in slick crimson innards. It’s unsettling that it’s all hot too, fresh. And the smell…the smell makes me gag.

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