I Am Stalking God

Prologue: The One and the Other

     The sun feels insulting. Glowing, blinding, ungrateful harbinger of the sweat that seeps into my blisters. Every rock in the dirt and even the sand under my foot is hitting perfectly to hurt far more than its worth in damage. Every nerve is stuck against my bloody, swollen feet; covered by only bandage wrapping, too full of my blood already to soak up any more.

     His hand bears a gift. His heart bears something I still don’t know though. The crunching of sand beneath every heavy step is louder than an infant's distress, yet still drowned out by his bellowing breaths. This sunrise has lasted an eon and every other second has been filled with a grunt or sigh from the brutish degenerate.

     Looking down, seeing my hands covered in blood, I grin. Another successful hunt will make Father proud, hopefully. This sack is near bursting, and my ego reflects it. Mother will be elated to see me handling myself out here, all alone for my first time. No Father guiding my hand, pulling the knife for me, cutting off the head to spill the venom from the vessel.

     His pace quickens, grip tightening on the thick rope he tied the sack closed with. It hovers barely above the ground. The wind follows, fastening exponentially in waves, crashing like a coastal agenda to rid his face of the dirt that has stained him. As disgusting as it is to know this flesh shackle binds us, it’s beautiful that he bears the burden of feeling its pain, sitting in its filth.

     Shortly ahead is the house, and inside, Mother and Father. My gift will make Mother proud, if she can cook this right, it might make daddy feel a little better. If I can prove that I can hunt on my own, maybe they’ll let me keep doing it. This hand-holding, treating me like a baby, has gotta stop. They told me I’m the best, that I’m gonna be the best, and they don’t ever let me just be that.

     Huffing like he’s gonna blow the house down, he stomps up the three steps onto the porch. The wooden railing at his side, he drops the bag, letting it rest up against the railing. Down he goes to the corroding chair on his right. Heavy he falls into it like a gluttonous king waiting to feast. Off he stares to the horizon of the endless desert, chuckling and smiling at it. Whiplash arises as he jolts his head down and shakes it like a wet, sad dog. Is that joy gone? That confidence shredded? His hands tighten around his torn trousers, a grip that could save a life, and his huffing turns to hyperventilating, like it’s his own life he’s trying to save.

     What if they aren’t pleased with my gift? What can I do to assure myself that they’ll appreciate this? I need what they have for me, I need them to want to give it to me. I don’t deserve to be sitting in a breaking chair, on a porch with a hole over my head where wooden roofing used to be. Stuck out here miles away from anyone else. What would they all look like? What do they sound like? Why would Mother and Father deprive people of their right to have me in their lives?

     His shaking hands lifting up to cower his head into, he smothers himself with them. A pathetic display of some idea of a man, stranded here with the unveiled abuse of these parents cast upon him. Escaping seems like an obvious choice at this point, seeing as he’s willing to eat anything, and is able to find it out here. Though, I can’t honestly expect him to think the same as I do. He is a being, not a real person, he’s some vague counterpart at this point.

     Before letting myself tear up. I stand and pick my gift back up, before slowly opening the door into my home. In front I see the stairwell hugging against the wall on my left, leading up to the second floor, where Fathers room and mine are. The rest is open space for the living room. The television sits up against the wall on the right, and straight to the left of the television is where the door to the kitchen used to be. Father didn’t like it, though. It also just took space, wasted time, so he just axed out an opening into the kitchen.