blood orange sky (bwwm horror)

make a little birdhouse in your soul

The forest was alive with whispers. Towering pines stretched skyward, their thick branches casting long, dappled shadows on the forest floor. A crisp breeze swept through the underbrush, stirring fallen leaves into lazy swirls. The smell of pine needles and damp earth filled the air, the kind of scent that clung to your clothes long after you'd left the woods.

Lucas crouched low, his breath steady as he followed his father's movements. The weight of the rifle in his hands felt more natural now than it had the first time, though the seriousness of it still left a knot in his stomach. His father had taught him patience early on—how to walk without sound, how to listen for the shift of leaves, the snap of twigs that meant something more than wind.

"Keep low," his father whispered his voice barely a breath in the stillness. His broad figure moved through the trees like a shadow, his tan skin blending in with the earth around them, his eyes locked ahead on the distant outline of a deer grazing near the stream.

Lucas nodded, his heart pounding in rhythm with each careful step. He wanted to make his father proud, to prove he wasn't the boy who trembled the first time they tracked a stag. But hunting was more than skill—it was about control, reading the signs of the woods, and moving like you were a part of them.

His father raised a hand, signaling Lucas to stop. The man was carved from the same tough, unyielding material as the landscape around them. His brow furrowed in concentration, his dark eyes sharp beneath thick lashes. Without a word, he gestured toward the deer just beyond the thicket.

Lucas adjusted his grip on the rifle, fingers tightening around the barrel. He moved like his father had taught him—slow and deliberate, never breaking the forest's fragile silence. The deer, still unaware, dipped its head to drink from the stream, the soft trickle of water the only sound breaking the quiet.

"You're ready, Lucas," his father whispered, his voice low, filled with a quiet pride. "Take the shot."

The words were like an incantation, and Lucas swallowed, steadying his breath. He focused on the target, the weight of the moment pressing down on his chest. Everything he'd learned led to this—the culmination of quiet nights by the fire, his father's lessons on survival, on becoming a man.

But as his finger brushed the trigger, something flickered in his chest, a hesitation he couldn't quite name. The deer raised its head, its large eyes blinking, innocent, unaware of the hunter lying in wait.

Seconds stretched out like hours. Lucas' heartbeat filled his ears, the pull of the trigger a moment away.

But before he could act, his father's rifle cracked through the stillness, sharp and deafening. The deer collapsed in an instant, the quiet shattered as the animal's body crumpled against the forest floor.

Lucas flinched, lowering his rifle. He watched as the life bled out of the creature, its dark eyes now empty, its form lying still in the dirt. A sharp pang hit him—something heavy and unfamiliar lodged in his chest.

His father exhaled slowly, turning to him with a small, approving nod. "It's not about hesitation, boy. It's about knowing when to take what the land gives you."

Lucas looked at the deer, then at his father, who was already moving toward the downed animal to prepare it. The pride he'd been hoping to feel was absent, replaced by a dull, hollow ache. He followed his father, but with each step, he couldn't shake the feeling that something inside him had shifted.

The woods felt quieter now. Darker.

.

.

.

Lucas knelt beside the deer, his knife heavy in his hand. His father had already begun the process of gutting the animal, his movements efficient, practiced. The metallic smell of blood filled the air, mixing with the scent of wet pine and earth. Lucas' stomach churned, but he steeled himself, mimicking his father's motions.