Work Text:
[Recorder clicks on.]
ARCHIVIST:
Statement of Mark Willoughby, concerning a hunting exsertion gone wrong. Statement originally given 18 November, 1988. Audio recording by the Archivist.
Statement begins.
ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT):
Hunting is something I grew up on. My family has never been well off, so it's why we had food on the table most nights. There were six of us growing up, my mum, dad, my three younger sisters, and me. Since I was the oldest and the only son in the family, helping my dad hunt and butcher the kill was always my job.
I was very close to my dad, but we were closest together on our hunts. We didn't hunt with dogs, just our rifles and our patience. That's what hunting really is, patience. When food was especially short, we'd stay out all day just waiting, hoping a deer or something would cross our path. In all the hours we spent, much of the time we talked in hushed whispers. My dad always told me stories about when he was a kid and hunting trips he took with his dad. Growing up, my dad wasn't as poor as we were. My grandfather had good hunting dogs and they didn't have to hunt to make sure they stayed fed.
Hunting, although something we needed to do to keep fed, was something I found special between me and my dad. He taught me everything I knew about it, and I learned more about him in those early dawn hours of quiet with my rifle over my shoulder than I ever did at home.
He taught me how to kill, but he also taught me how to respect our kills and how to make sure their death was as painless as possible. Clean shots, careful shots, no dicking around. You never shot a doe when it was within fawning season or when you knew they were still pregnant. It didn't matter how hungry we got, we didn't shoot a doe who had young. Same rules applied to rabbit, squirrel, and fowl. You don't hunt them in their breeding or nesting seasons.
We used every part of the animal we could, and the parts we didn't need or couldn't use we gave to our neighbors. In exchange, they'd sometimes give us eggs or fried fish, or some of their gardening in the summer. That's the type of community we lived in. We'd share and give what we could, and ultimately it benefited everyone.
I never went to university, didn't even finish secondary school, but I ended up getting a good job in a company that deals with construction. At the time, I didn't know much about it, but through my dad's connections- a friend of a friend who owed someone a favour, I got my foot in the door. I owe the job I have now to my dad, I owe everything to him. Now I'm stable enough that I don't have to hunt to feed myself or my partners, but I still like it.
I actually- The hunting trip I came here to talk about is actually the first time I've gone hunting in over a year. You see, my dad died a year ago. It hit me hard. It hit the whole family, but since mom had already left, dad was all we had. His death wrecked me bad. I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, and I hardly worked for a few months. I especially couldn't hunt. I couldn't even think of taking a trip out to hunt. How could I? He left me his rifle. It had originally belonged to my grandfather and he used it every time we went hunting together. I couldn't even look at that damn gun without turning into a broken faucet.
But, about a month or two ago I started pulling the last bits of myself together. I wasn't- I'm not fully healed from his passing, I don't think you're ever 100% better after someone you love dies, but you get better enough to live again. I thought I was good enough to try and go hunting. My partners actually influenced the idea, they both knew how much I enjoyed getting out in nature and how I liked the feeling of providing for my family. So, when I brought up the idea of going out on my own for a weekend trip to a place I had a good history of deer hunting with, they both supported it full heartedly.
It was their push, their support that really helped me get into the headspace to do it, and at the time I was grateful. Now, I just- I feel like I'll never be able to hunt again and I'm angry. I'm not angry at them or the fact that I can't even stomach thinking about killing an animal, but because this ruined the memories I had with my father, and I'll never forgive it. Never.
I don't even know how to talk about it for Christ's sake. It took weeks for me to open up to Molly and Kent. I thought I was crazy for what happened, that it was some major grief induced hallucination. But when I got the words out, Molly told me I should come here. She had a friend who told their story here and she said it really helped them. So… Here I am, and I guess this is what happened.
Like I said, I had the idea to go deer hunting in a place I was familiar with. It was the first hunt I'd be doing since my dad passed, and that was a big thing for me. I was eager for it, eager to be out there again and to feel normal again. So, when the weekend I planned for came, I had my father's rifle, a box of ammunition, a small lunch, plastic tarps for the bed of my truck, and my buck knife.
I drove for a good hour to this place in the morning. It was in the country, a wooded bit of forest that overlooked a grassy field that eventually ended with a wooden fence that marked the property line of a nearby farm. I got my gear and made the trek over to the fence and sat down with my back against a half rotted, wooden post. I was a bit winded, but in a few minutes I collected myself and calmed my breathing.
That's when I began to wait.
I got my gun and placed it in my lap, barrel facing away from anything of importance. It was loaded, but I had the safety on. A major rule with a gun is to not point it towards any place where there could be people. Always point it in an off direction when you're not using it and never point it at another person.
The quiet was nice. It was cool and empty and I felt at peace. Something inside of me still hurt, but it was a good hurt. My dad wouldn't want me to miss out on something I enjoyed because he died, he'd be smacking me upside the head and scolding me if I did.
I don't know how long I sat there, but it was a good few hours. I just let the time pass and stayed quiet, waiting. By the time I saw a female roe deer walk into my line of sight from the edge of the field, I couldn't feel my leg with how long I'd been sitting in that position unmoving. It wasn't a fawning season, and when I slowly brought my gun to my shoulder to get a look at her through the scope, I saw that she was healthy. She would be okay to kill.
As I calmed my breathing, I felt my heart race. Despite my experience, I felt myself fall into the jitters of buck fever. It was my first hunt after losing my dad, my first kill. It was special. If I were a smarter man, maybe it would even be symbolic.
I watched her as she walked slowly through the grass. She sniffed the air, head looking carefully around for any predators. She didn't see me or sense anything else, because she lowered her head and started to eat at the long grass that covered the ground.
I swallowed hard and watched her through the scope. She was in a good position, quartered away so that her body was turned so that she was partly facing the woods. I'd have a good, clean shot if she stayed where she was; and even though I was nervous I wasn't taking any chances.
I ticked the safety off, my sights right behind her front shoulder. As my finger began to curl around the trigger, the strangest thing happened. The doe raised her head and looked at me. Not towards me, but at me. Her black eyes bore into me through the scope and I was so shocked that I immediately pulled the trigger.
The bang was instant, as was the dull kick to my shoulder. When the shot hit her, the deer jumped and turned, running off in the direction that she had originally come from. I lowered my gun and watched her as she ran. I knew she wouldn't go far, I had hit her in the lung, she wouldn't survive long.
And after a mad, 15 seconds of running that felt much longer than it actually was, the doe finally dropped, crumbling into the tall grass.
I set the safety back on my gun and stood up. I put it over my shoulder, and feeling the best I had since my dad died, went to go collect my kill.
The field was large, and since she had wildly ran even further into it, I had to do a bit more walking to collect the doe than I had to get to the fence. I didn't mind. The kill always left me feeling giddy, full of adrenaline. It was a good feeling.
So, I walked, my eyes on the doe's dead body. I walked, and walked, and walked, but I didn't seem to be getting any closer. This is when my good feelings started to fade. Finally, I looked around and saw that everything had changed. I couldn't see the fence, the woods, or the road. All that was there was the field, seemingly endless and stretching out forever around me.
I couldn't breathe. It felt like all the wind was knocked out of me as I stood there, looking around at the field that had sprung up around me. I felt lost, I felt trapped there. The only thing there that I could see was the deer, still dead, thank God. It was the only thing that hadn't been replaced, hadn't changed. So, I started walking towards it again. It was the only thing I could do.
The walk continued, nothing changed. I felt like a dog on a treadmill. I was moving but at the same time everything kept repeating! It kept going on and on… You know how in old cartoons the background repeats if you look real closely? It was exactly like that, but everything was repeating.
I wanted to stop, but I was scared. I was scared that if I stopped walking I would never get out. If I walked long enough then maybe, maybe it would change. Something would break or be fixed and things would go back to normal. At least I thought it would.
Before long, I started moving faster. I was no longer scared of not being able to get out of that place, I was scared of something finding me. As I ran, following the bloody trail the doe left behind, I could feel it. Feel the eyes on me. I felt hunted. Was something bigger and smarter than me looking down the barrel of its own weapon and trying to gauge where my heart was? Every time I looked around, I didn't see anything in the field around me, but I knew it was there. Something was there.
Then came the noises. Far off I heard the bellowing howls of hunting dogs fresh on the scent of their prey. That noise alone kicked something into gear inside me. It didn't matter that I had a gun on my back and that I was supposed to be at the top of the food chain, that didn't matter. All that mattered was there was something that wanted to chase me, to hunt me, to kill me, and to put me in my place. I knew the dogs were chasing me. I knew it. It didn't matter that I couldn't see them or their Master. I just knew it.
There was nowhere to hide in the field. Even the grass wasn't high enough to crouch down in to take a break while I caught my breath, not that I wanted to hide in the grass anyways. It was too open. It was all too open and too big. I wanted to hide, but I couldn't. I had never felt so helpless in my life.
The deer just lay dead, yards in front of me, still unmoving. It was dead, it didn't have this fear of being hunted. Or did it? It was a prey animal. It had felt hunted its entire life. It was constantly on the lookout for a predator. Did it feel hunted when it looked at me before I shot it? Did it feel scared? Why didn't it run? Why didn't it look scared? Why did it accept death so readily? Was it tired of running? Tired of being prey?
I remember hearing the explosion of a bullet and I screamed, jumping down to the ground with my hands over my head. It was a wonder I didn't have a heart attack then. The only thing that made me get up and start running again was that the sound of the hunting dogs got louder, they were gaining on me. I couldn't let the dogs get me, couldn't let them corner me while they waited on their Master to put a bullet between my eyes.
I kept running. The dogs grew louder as I kept going. I was slowing but I couldn't help it, you can only run so long without collapsing. The gunshots continued. I heard them all around me and I smelt the gunsmoke. I had no idea where the Master was, but so often one of his bullets whizzed past too close to my body. He could've shot me if he wanted. I know it. He was too good of a shot not to. No, he was doing this on purpose. He was teasing me, playing with me. He enjoyed my fright, my terror as I ran for my life on an endless treadmill. He didn't want the hunt to end too soon.
I don't know how long I ran, but I was so scared. I was slowing down and I could hear the dogs getting closer. I didn't look behind me, I couldn't. I knew if I did I'd be dead in an instant. But I could hear them as they ran and the clinking of their dog tags so close behind me. They were so close, so close. Any moment I was expecting one of them to jump at me and bring me down.
It was when I knew I wouldn't survive that I realized I had been crying. My face was wet and cold with tears. I could barely breathe. I was so tired. Every part of my body was heavy. If I stopped moving I knew I wouldn't be able to get up again, not that I'd have a chance with the dogs on my heels. They bite my ankles or my calves and bring me down the same way they would any large hunt. Then their Master would come and finish the job.
A part of me wanted to let it happen. Maybe that's how the deer felt. If I stopped running and just let them kill me, then it would be over. It would be all over and I wouldn't be so scared. They were going to kill me eventually, I knew that. What was the use of prolonging it? Drawing out the hunt and bringing even more satisfaction to the Master?
The deer lay ahead of me, it felt nothing in its death. No more pain, no more fear. It was no longer hunted, no longer chased. It looked so peaceful in death. I wanted that. I didn't want that fear. I didn't have any hopes about living, just ending the terrible pain that was being hunted.
So, I gave up.
I threw my rifle off my shoulder and took a running leap at the deer and closed my eyes as tight as I could. A shot rang out and I felt a hot stinging pain slice through my arm.
Then there was silence. No more dogs, no more bullets, just quiet and the scent of blood.
Barely managing to breathe, I opened my eyes and saw that I landed on the corpse of the dead doe. She was still warm and her hot blood oozed out of the wound in her shoulder like water. Shaking, I looked around. Everything was back. The road, the fence, the woods. It had come back. The dogs were gone and my gun lay some feet on the ground behind me.
But I still felt the eyes, the eyes of the Master. I felt his sights on me.
Forgetting the deer, my rifle, and everything else, I hauled my aching body up and moved to my truck as fast as I could. I was so tired from running, but I wasn't staying there a moment longer. I wasn't going to let myself sit in the open anymore.
And I left.
Things are worse than when my dad died. I can barely leave the house. I hate going out. When I do, I feel the sights of his gun on me. Whenever I hear a dog, I go ridged and my heart beats so fast that I can't breathe. Whenever a car exhaust backfires in the street or Molly or Kent drop something in the kitchen, I start sobbing and have to hide in the closet like a baby. I don't know what it is. I don't know what happened that day, or what's happening to me now. All I know is that he's still out there. The Master. He's waiting for me, and he's a patient man.
I haven't told anyone this story beside Molly and Kent, and even then I don't know if they believe me. They want me to see a therapist, but I won't. How can what happened not be real? He shot me for Christ's sake. The pain in my arm… He got me. The wound wasn't bad or deep, but it hurts and doesn't want to heal.
I don't know if I feel better saying this, making this statement. Maybe I do. Maybe if the Master gets me then I won't die having people think I'm crazy with grief. I'll be dead, I don't think I'll care about it then. As long as I'm not being hunted I don't think I could care about anything ever again.
ARCHIVIST:
Statement ends.
The Hunt. (CLICKS TONGUE.) Not very subtle in this one. I thought that maybe by reading statements concerning it, I might be able to better understand what Daisy is missing, what she's craving moreso.
Everyone applauds her for starving herself, meanwhile she looks like a walking corpse. I don't- Daisy is my friend, it feels like in all of this she is the only one I have right now. I don't want her to suffer like this, but I also just wish Georgie, Melanie, and Basira would open their eyes and see how this is effecting her. I'm not- I'm not doing that to myself. It's the one thing I have control of right now, taking statements or turning into a withdrawal stricken husk.
At least when I take statements like this I don't get so hungry that I do go out looking for live statements. I don't know how Daisy does it. Maybe it's because she could. I mean, (SIGHS.) In whatever is going on, I have a role, that's a given. I'm the Archivist . I think even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to quit taking statements.
[Recorder clicks off.]