The Hunted

March 4, 2011
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There were Wolves in my dream.

A massive forest lies before me. And the trees. Thousands of them. Of every shape and size, there were trees. Commandeering an ocean of a woodland with the gentle swaying of leaves. But haunting shadows dart in and out and around the trunks, distracting from the beauty of the commanding trees. They move too fast for any kind of indication as to what they are. Though my whole being wants to pull away, my feet move me towards the trees. And the shadows. Something foreboding about those shadows. I don’t want to know what lies inside them. Yet I am draw towards the trees. Ever towards the trees. And as I draw near the closest tree a shadow seems to slow, and as it comes into focus I look upon the being that belongs to the shadow. And he pierces me with great white eyes. My blood runs cold.
And as through a kaleidoscope, the scene changes

A massive room, earthly with dirt packed floors and walls made of stripped branches. A man, small in stature stands to the side. But the man doesn’t command attention, for as the scene begins to change once again, my eyes are drawn to the pelt that hangs above his mantle. Supernatural in size, the maw of the Wolf still seems to challenge anyone who dares look at him, even in his lifeless state. And I am left wondering at the diminutive build of the man, and yet the immense trophy he has possession of. The Hunted turned Hunter.

A hallway now, is before me. And the doors. Thousands of them. On both sides of the hallway there are doors. Of every shape and size. I am drawn through the hallway, passing harmlessly by every door. They read , ‘Spelling Bee’, ‘Driver’s License’, and ‘College.’ I pass more doors. ‘Career’, ‘Promotion’ and even still, ‘Marriage.’ It is then I notice the White Door. Commanding the hallway, a solid door is before me. The White Door holds the unknown. It has no label on the flawless wooden beams. I watch, unmoving, as the White Door opens, and I see a child walk out. Unseen by the child, I watch, engrossed, as he eyes a door. ‘Talent Show’ it reads. The child reaches for the door. And yet, just as his fingers brush the brass handle, a dark shape moves behind him. Following him through the White Door, a Shadow darts to her side. Snatching hold of child’s hand, the Shadow slows and for the first time He comes into focus. And as I watch in horror, his yellowed teeth sunk deep in the child’s arm, tearing, he draws the girl back, back into the White Room. Why doesn’t the child fight back? She seems as though unaware of the fangs ripping her arm, slowly drawing her back into captivity. She does not cry out, she does not twist or turn. She, instead, turns her eyes from the door she so determinedly pressed towards moments ago and now allows herself to be taken back into confinement. Why does she do this?

Another door. This time the door stands before me.. This door is not for observance, this door is for me. My door. But unlike the child, my eyes are open to the blockade before me. The Shadow. A mythical Wolf, standing as tall as my shoulder. With tattered hackles raised, he haunts me with his pupil-less white eyes. He knows me. The Shadow. The monarch of my fear. His massive body crouched, ready to lunge. His yellowed fangs dripping, he shifts his weight from one ragged paw to the other. Daring me to defy him. To challenge him. He stands in my way, blocking my exit and also my entry. Will I confront him? What do I know about this door? I know not what lies behind it. I know not where it leads. Is the desire of my heart so strong that I would bloody myself, charge him, and defend my destination? Will I fight, when I am unconfident of what I am fighting for? The Wolf knows my thoughts. His blood soaked maw seems to grin at me while he tastes my hesitance. And my knees tremble. I know, caught in his blood-lust eyes, that I can never beat him. On my own, he would overcome me and on my knees he would end my life.
His eyes seem to dare, come closer, tail swishing. And as he eyes my sweating palms I realize he will not leave. He will always wait for me; wait for me to come at him, ready for battle. He will never rest.

Summoning every ounce of courage I’ve got, You are not alone, I face him, fists at my sides. His eyes show unease and he falters a step, unsure at my new-found resolve. But as his anger surges he snarls, who am I to defy him? The master of the dark, master of my fear. And with a kick from his powerful claws he lunges at me.

But I stand ready.

For I am tired of being The Hunted.





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avidreader said...
Mar. 11, 2011 at 1:03 pm
Great anology of how fear can keep us from bettering ourselves.
 
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