THE STAG IN THE GARDEN

Just something little I wrote. Was supposed to be like a journal entry, ended up sounding pretty literary though. And I could have expanded it. Oh well.

By the time the stag had stumbled off back into the woods, and we had broken eye contact, my eggs laid brown and stiff in the pan. I dumped them into the garbage can and returned to the window above the kitchen sink. It frames the open patch of land where Cecilia used to try to grow herbs, but this time of year any semblance of a garden is buried by the snowfall.

The stag's stride was unbalanced, painful even. As if the weight of his body could collapse his hind legs at any moment. He treaded through the remnants of Cecilia's labor, and my first instinct was to reach for the Winchester. I know it's silly at this point, but I'd like that garden to be well kept.

I didn't bother to reattempt breakfast. Something about the way that stag looked at me left my stomach in a delicate state. I heated some milk instead, more to feel the warm mug between my palms than a desire to consume anything.

I can barely stand to set foot in the attic now. It was supposed to be a place for me to play, the only space in the cabin big enough to house all my instruments. The remodel destroyed it. I hate its cleanliness, its sterility. It feels like a hospital waiting room.

I took my guitar and recorder downstairs and tried to get something done. My fingers were numb from the cold, and each pluck of a string left my fingertips red. I could feel the joints of the hand resisting my commands, creaking like a poorly oiled machine. I thought today was the day I'd finally work through it, and I wasn't getting up until I had at least the start of something. Then I noticed the large beads of winter perspiration on the window. I watched them roll down the glass at leisure. It was enough to distract me.

With dad's old axe in hand, I went behind the tool shed to collect some fire wood. Every strike of the log echoed softly, just enough to hear the cracking sound ripple into the blackness. I was the only thing making any sort of noise for miles, and it suddenly felt like a sad one sided conversation I was carrying on.

That is until I heard something dragging through the snow. I remember gripping the splintering axe handle tight and looking up with a breath held in my sternum. There was the stag. The same bastard, dragging his hind legs. He looked at me, and I felt weak and wanted to run. It felt like a challenge- the way an overconfident asshole on the street will lock eyes in passing, just to see if you will look away in surrender.

I went to bed curious of the morning. Thinking of Cecilia, thinking of the stag, and hoping I had my last encounter with the latter.