Chapter 2
2016, Belmore Ohio
The light of the sun scatters on the ground, dimmed by the leaves of the autumn trees. The moon creeps just beyond the threshold of trees. The smell of pine mixed with damp ground stains every corner of the forest, making a musty smell.
Twigs and leaves crunch below Francis's feet as he walks through the wood. An Alaskan Malamute and Doberman walk next to him as they traverse the forest. Holding his rifle at his side, he listens as the birds' trill, focusing on finding a healthy fresh yearling. He gets to a small clearing in the wood to watch with no confusion between himself, the dogs, and a hearty, dear.
The leaves dance in the wind as they fall, littering the ground as the sun starts to fall into the late evening. Sulfur sighs and flops her big body onto the grass. Her cream fur, being brushed by the wind and glimmering in the sun. While Brutus is sitting with poise, watching into the deep wood ahead of him. Francis watches in the same direction as Brutus, trying to see what he sees. A loud crack in the wood sends Sulfur to her feet and back hair, fluffing up. Looking at Brutus, he sees that the sleek hair on his back is standing straight up.
"What do you see..." Francis whispers to them.
Brutus gets up on his feet, then so does Francis. He turns the gun off the safety position and gets ready to fire when needed.
"Sulfur, beute."
Sulfur trots into the foliage, being subtle, soon blending into the forest. A few moments go by before a loud bawl cries from the direction of which Francis and Brutus face.
"Brutus, suchen."
Brutus takes off into the greenery, his paws barely touching the ground. Soon enough, Sulfur comes trotting back, nuzzling her head onto the palm of his hand.
"Nehmen." He commands, looking down at Sulfur.
She wags her tail as she leads him through the wood. As they continue, the smell of iron starts to emerge. The fresh carcass of a yearling comes into view, its throat and a chunk of its leg brutally ripped from its body.
The deer lays there, its legs twitching as it attempts to breathe. Brutus sits next to the deer as if to protect his achievement. Blood soaks his lower jaw, the deer's throat lays next to him. Francis smiles and pets them before lining the gun up and shooting the animal in the head.
"Good dogs."
Francis sets down his backpack and pulls out some thin rope, a hunting knife, and bandages. He ties up the yearling's legs and wraps gauze around the deer's throat as not to drench his clothes as he heads back home. Taking his hunting knife, Francis cuts the deer's tail off. Then, he digs a shallow hole in the ground, setting the tailpiece and throat in it. Packing all his stuff back in his bag, he throws the deer over his shoulder, grabs his bag, and signals the dogs to run home.
. . .
Francis carries the yearling into the damp, dark garage where she will be blood-led, gutted, and skinned. He sets the deer on his work bend in the garage, uniting the ropes except the two on the back legs and taking the gauze off. He carries it to the utility sink and ties the deer above it. Then, recuts the throat to lead the blood.
The sun sets low on the horizon, giving the trees a burning glow. The garlic in the garden is fresh and ready to be picked for the evening's dinner. The children are helping the mother cook in the kitchen. And Francis is in the Garage. Gutting the animal is possibly the messiest part of hunting. Forty-five percent of a deer is bone or organ, and there's not a lot you can do with that forty-five percent.
Francis takes his hunting knife and punches a hole in the skin between the buck's knee and rear tendon. He hangs the deer upside down on a gambrel, getting ready to skin it. He begins to cut down at the bends of each leg, joining the cuts with deeper cuts along the insides of the legs that meet the deer's abdomen. Carefully, he begins to work the skin away from the rear legs. Once he gets enough skin, he starts to pull the hide off and throat. At the front of the shoulders, he starts removing the rest of the skin from various joints.
After taking a large bone saw from his workbench, Francis began to saw the antlers. Once the first one detached, he flipped the head and started on the second antler. Looking at the deer, Francis pets its ear, his fingers gliding across the velvet texture. Feeling sorrow beginning to rise, he quickly sawed the head off and put it in a small bag, setting it off to the side. Putting the organs into a blender, he grinds them into fertilizer. He cleans the sink of deer blood and tidies the garage.
The bones of the yearling lay across the damp workbench, drops of hot water falling off the edges. Francis closes the utility sinks drain and fills it with hydrogen peroxide and water. Then, he picks out the ribcage and the femurs of the animal and submerges them in the mixture. They will be the trophies for the dogs and himself. For teaching Sulfur and Brutus so perfectly, and the dogs for listening without question.
In the corner of the garage sits a small bag that contains the yearlings head. Francis grabs the bag and a shovel, walking into the moonlit forest.
"Sulfur," calls Francis, whistling for her.
The big poof of a dog comes trotting out of the house, panting while coming right up to Francis, nuzzling her face under his hand.
"Good girl."
They both descend into the forest, a soft blue glow painting across the tops of the trees. The moon glows from the top of the sea of a sky. Below the blanket of leaves, Sulfer and Francis walk through the wood. Their steps blend with the sounds of the branches swaying in the wind. A small patch of recently dug-up dirt comes into view. Francis sets the bag down and kneels, beginning to dig at the patch. After a few scoops, a tail and larynx sit in a shallow grave. He takes them out and begins to dig with the shovel until a two-foot-deep hole is formed. Gently, he puts the tail, larynx, and head in the opening before covering them with dirt and leaving.
Francis walks to the back of the house. In front of him stands a seven-foot-tall deer wire fence. Opening the gate, he walks in and approaches Benson, an old tule elk. Sitting down, Francis pets him.
"Hi, old boy." He mutters, petting his antlers. "How you holden' up?"
Francis moves to Benson's chest and lays on him, resting his hand on the bull's chest.
"Chilly, isn't it?" he murmurs, laying his head on the animal. "You been resting old man?" He pets Benson as he looks off into the pitch-black woods. A small light comes into view as he continues to look. Getting off of Benson, Francis starts towards the light. As he gets closer, it becomes apparent what it is.
A small flashlight with a picture taped to it. Francis picks it up, pointing the flashlight to the picture. As he focuses on it, he can make out the people in the photograph. Jesse closes up in the bottom right corner, Michael in the middle, Tye clinging to Jonathan, and Johnathan and himself hugging each other. It's a photo of them outside his old campus on the first day, the night Michael died.
Francis shoved the paper in his pocket, tears starting to form as memories flood back. He takes his phone out and calls Jesse. It dials before Jesse picks up.
"Real fucking funny, Jess." Francis barks into the phone
"What?" Jesse says, his voice was groggy with sleep. "What happened?"
"Like you don't fucking know." He snaps. "The flashlight with the picture taped to it that you left in my backyard."
"Francis, I've been sleeping for the past," his voice stops for a moment before returning. " two-and-a-half hours. I haven't been at your house."
"You had to have been. You're the person the took this picture." Francis shouts, his voice quivering a bit.
Jesse sighs, "Listen, it's ten on a Sunday night. If I went somewhere, it wouldn't have been your backyard. Maybe you had it in your pocket and dropped it? I don't know. Don't worry about it, get some rest." and with that, he hangs up.
Taking the back out of a small frame, he sets the picture of him and his college friends in it, closing the back up and setting it in his living room.
"Where'd you find that?" Lille says, hugging him from behind.
"The garage. It was in a box." Francis replies bluntly.
"You alright?" She says, swaying her hips as if to dance to some inaudible song.
"Just a little tired."
"Just making sure." She kisses his cheek before opening the wine chest.
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