Bambi, A Short Story

"Why don't you do something?"

He kill her. A little bit every day. Drag her out to the big oak tree in the middle of the overgrown backyard and do the deed.

A knife dug just deep enough to draw the red rivers from her veins. He wants her pain, every slow sip of it. Once she give up, he done. The nectar ain't quite as sweet without the struggle.

She lies there, the dirt and dead leaves crunching into her split-open veins. Then she spot me.

I don't look away. Hiding ain't my thing. I stare at her like she there for my entertainment. And she is. Why else would she let him drag her all way out to the yard?

I suppose she expect me to do something. Yell at him to stop. Let her alone. Guess she think since we both bleed by nature, I'm supposed to cry over her spilled blood.

It's always hunting season for her kind. The doe-eyed and helpless. When the rifles is loaded, I ain't never jumped in front of no Bambi. Not about to start.

She still there. All big-eyed and wounded.

"You always watching. Why don't you do something?"

She lob the question at me like I'm the one beating her upside the head every night.

She look surprised that I ain't all ate up with guilt over her wretched situation.

I light the cigarette I been saving all week, take my time feeding it to the flame. Take that first long pull, then let the smoke curl out my lungs like I'm made of fire.

"Why don't you?" I ask.

Bambi ain't got no answer to that.

She turn and limp back into the house, mad as hell at three people, two of which don't care.

I go back to my herbs. Back to minding my side of the fence. No thoughts of Bambi and her doe-eyed problems.