The Hunter's Wolf

Desperado

Desperado

10 years ago

At first light of daybreak, my first training begins.

My father has demonstrated many different methods and procedures, letting me watch each and every of his illustrations of pain and torture since I was at the age of five, and after that incident which nearly took my life away, the carnage has only multiplied. The patterns of his felony acts have gone only worse, and much like savages.

Despite his brutality and primitive ways, the society does not fear him; not the very least.

They fear the weapon that he has taken under his wing— not as a daughter, but as an apprentice.

To begin with, his discipline inquires perseverance and fortitude. This, especially, is tested during the cardinal lesson; a hand-to-hand combat, in which I am left unarmed in order to learn how to protect myself, and to master the basics of sabotage.

"Faster," my father presses, pushing me beyond my limits.

I swing my fist at the pair of mitts in my line of sight and duck, before rotating my hips and spin a double-kick onto it. He attacks at times and I block them with my arms as a shield, then I continue to strike dozens of jabs onto the mitts. He raises his legs and tries to cut through the attacks, and I dodge his punch, quickly locking my arms and tackling him down onto the ground.

My six year-old figure has brought an advantage to him. He easily lifts me up and throws me onto the ground, my back hitting the mat and I grunt. Standing up to my feet, he takes off his mitts and tosses them somewhere, his fists now tightening, his legs bending in ready, his eyes focused on me.

A one-on-one.

A grin forms on my lips as he swings his legs under me, but I jump on them, his legs kicking into the air.

The one-on-one is my favourite combat practise. Because if I win, not only that I get to see him, but my pride will swell up like a giant.

For the next few minutes, I keep dodging his offenses, defending myself by observing all his moves, aiming for his weakness. My eyes widen when I see the opportunity, and I slip behind him and swing my legs on his shoulders, locking them around his neck. He jams me onto the walls, and my holds loosen, and he easily throws me over his shoulders, my body tumbling on the mat once more.

"Again," he says, his voice gruff and cold.

I huff on my breath. "Can we," I tell him while catching my breath, slightly wincing at the stab of pain on my shoulder, "Take a break for a couple of minutes ?"

His eyes narrow and his throat emits an unpleasant sound. His hand yanks me off the ground and slams my back onto the other wall, and I gasp from the pain.

"They won't give you mercy, Rose," he growls, "You of all people should know that after the incident that almost took your life."

His eyes glare into mine. "Now, again."

Present day

It's cold.

My head and back is resting against a hard surface, possible a metal, with its texture as smooth as glass, and the cold seeps through my clothes and absorbed into the skin. I peel my heavy eyelids open, but it seems that my head has not sobered up yet, not as well as I thought, the weight still sticking around.

I try to blink several times, but as the blur disintegrates, a bright light that is left dangling just above my face greets me, blinding me on the spot and I feel a sharp pain stabbing me at the back of my head. I squint to block out the light and tilt my head slightly to the side to get rid of its luminosity. My nerves are beginning to return, my muscles breaking down the cramps apart and I feel the soreness that settles in.