Seeking Satisfaction

Chapter 1

Magnificent skyscraping trees, painted a luscious bright green, whizzed past me as I carried my legs as fast as I possibly could. The warm sun's rays fell on my back through the thick canopy above. A slight, crisp breeze brushed back my long espresso shaded hair as I crunched the twigs and leaves beneath my feet. The aroma of moist, rich soil as well as fresh, damp moss filled my nostrils as I breathed in heavily.

"Wait up, Willow!" bellowed a wheezy, deep male voice. His heavy panting behind me influenced me to come to a halt. Turning around, I saw Mickey bending over with his hands on his knees.

"Hey, Mick!" I yelled across to him. "I love how you consider running your thing!" I couldn't help but give him a wild grin which in turn resulted in him giving me his stupid sarcastic laugh.

Walking towards me he began talking in a fake posh british accent. "I shall have you know that I very well can skedaddle when I wish to. How dare thee insult my ability to run while you are inadequate in what matters most." He paused for, I guess, dramatic emphasis, then continued, "Taking care of fish!" His boisterous, barking laughter echoed through the forest and beyond. I lost control of my body and began hysterically laughing, emitting involuntary snorts here and there. I didn't even fully understand why I found it so funny. Whether it was the story itself or Mick's laughter, I had no clue. What I did know though was that the longer I stood there laughing, the more sharp the ache in my side became. The muscles in my cheeks felt stiff and sore.

I guess Mick had finally gotten over his joke, because leaves were rustling behind me. "You done yet?" he asked me. I sucked in a deep breath, closed my eyes and exhaled.

"Phew, yeah." I could hear that my own voice was now wheezy.

"I think it's time to hunt. I'm getting hungry," he stated. I nodded to him and we began walking towards home. No one spoke, which was sort of nice.

The soft, familiar sound of chirping birds resonated in my ears. Delicate creatures of all shapes and sizes inhabited the thick woodland forest. Chestnut brown squirrels scampered by, chasing one another. They weaved through the great, ancient Redwood trees that well populated the area. Every time I took a stroll through the forest, I was amazed by the numerous variety of life it housed.

We soon reached my lousy home: a musty, old green tent. Since my mother's untimely death, it had become my permanent residence. Although it got lonely when Mick and the guys weren't around, the surroundings were marvelous. The forest gave me a sense of solitude within my thoughts. So easily, the songs of the forest could fade behind leaving just silence and I.

"Alright then, Willow," Mick said. "Pass me a dagger, please." I ruffled through a fairly large wooden box, filled to the top with my handmade weapons, until I found Mick's favourite dagger. It was a shiny, sharp weapon made of strong steel and a handle made of wood. I personally preferred my bow and arrows since I enjoyed long distance shooting. I handed Mick his dagger, slung my bow across my back and grabbed my bag of wooden arrows. The time had arrived to go fetch ourselves a feast.

We began walking deeper into the forest in hopes of spotting some good meat. Deer was my favourite, but it was harder to come by. Honestly though, any meat made my mouth water. The sizzling as the meat was cooked over top a warm fire, the flavourful juice that squeezed out of the chewy, red meat, and the savory tastes that gave you the unquenchable thirst for more. Licking my lips, I tried to listen for animals.

At first, the sounds seemed only to be coming from up high in the trees, and from the brisk breeze. The usual signs of life remained surrounding us, but nothing of great, lean meat seemed nearby. Both Mick and I scanned the trees, hoping to spot the slightest sliver of motion.

Rustle. I jerked my head to the left, almost in perfect synchronization with Mickey; something was there. The knowledge that food was near, triggered the growls that were soon loudly emitted from my stomach.

Mick, going into an automatic crouching stance, raised up his dagger. He put his finger to his lips and began slowly moving towards the source of rustling. Doing as he signalled, I quietly moved my hand, preparing to grab an arrow. He continued his approach, cautious not to make any noise.

Going into hunting mode, I remembered my first hunting experience; it was not anywhere near successful. Mick's cousin had been in town for a few days so Mick and I dragged him along and pressured him into teaching us how to hunt. He not only taught us the art of hunting, but he also helped us make our very first weapons.

When I was very young, I shrugged off the idea of hunting. To my childish ears, hunting had seemed nothing but a disgusting sport played by harsh men. The day I first held a bow, it all became clear. It wasn't just a sport; it was survival. Out here in the wild, I had to fend for myself; there was only so much people could do for me. Fetching me food was definitely not on the that "can-do list".

Currently though, I could feel a pang hunger in my stomach. It gurgled, cramped and twisted simultaneously.

A bush, from which the rustling had come from, lay just a few steps away from Mick. Occasionally, its leaves would shift; whether that was caused by the wind or by an animal, I had no clue. My fingers were crossed, wanting it be to the latter.

Mick took one quick step towards the bush. He peered at the moving leaves. He took another step and then paused. He turned his head so that his ear could listen intently. His last step placed him a foot away, in perfect position. About there, Mickey's cousin had told them, was where a waiting stance was to be taken.

That position must have been one of the most difficult for me to learn. Not only was hunting something that required a lot of strength and hand-eye coordination, but patience was key. When I was younger, sitting still was just not my strong suit. My wandering thoughts would race through my mind running in millions of wild directions. Subconsciously, I would fidget around with my fingers and constantly sway side to side. My mom had told me that as a little girl, without even noticing it, my foot would begin to tap continuously as my eyes glanced anxiously at the clock if something were not to my timing. Even as I got older, I could never fully learn patience. Unfortunately for me, my stomach could never master it either.

I knew not much time had passed since we began closing in on the rustling bush, but it felt like forever. Finally, Mick had reached it. Looking back towards me, he motioned for me to prepare my bow.

I silently grabbed an arrow from my bag; a long, wooden one with a sharp, pointed tip. I notched it and waited. While I was doing that, Mick was readying himself to pounce. We had done this sort of ritual so many times that we didn't have to speak, to know what to do. We both stopped moving and silently counted to three. One, two, three.

Mick dropped his dagger and launched forward, propelling himself into the bush. He landed with a grunt on top of a large rabbit. He grabbed onto it by its core, yanking it away from cover, so that I could take a clear shot. Uttering heart-breaking squeals as it squirmed in Mickey's hands, the bunny's wide eyes almost made me hesitate.

Almost. I pulled the bowstring back to my face. Inhaling, I aimed the arrow at the rabbit. Exhaling, I let go and watched as the arrow whizzed through the air and hit the rabbit.

"Ha! Rabbit down!" screamed Mick, full of joy. He smiled, dangling the limp rabbit by its foot. He was so enthusiastic. About death.

I was beginning to grow accustomed to the whole hunting shibang, but it never quite felt right. I couldn't help but pay close attention to the bright crimson liquid, soaking the rabbit's fur; the stench of it was all too familiar. The eyes, too, unsettled me. The hollow, lifeless eyes.

Years had passed since I lost my mother, but for some reason it still felt like yesterday. Hunting was survival, but also was a reminder of death. Death was everywhere: among animals, plants, any form of nature really. To me, it was more than just a state. It was a person; a cold, hate-filled person. Death was all too real; when would I be able to stop reminiscing on it?