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The sun is beaming down hard on his shoulders, warm, heavy fingers pressing against the space between his shoulder blades, dancing along the lines of his arms, laying gentle kisses on the slowly-warming metal of his rifle. It’d be a beautiful day anywhere else, but it seems even the sun in this godforsaken continent is trying to kill him. Can’t be helped, he supposes, or else the prize wouldn’t be worth anything.
(It’s a cold day when the door Father comes through stays open, just like any other. When he walks through the door, though, it isn’t cold anymore: the world outside hurts. Bright and warm and smelly, like Father’s blows beating down on his head all over again.)
It’s a beautiful animal, even viewed down the barrel of his rifle. A white lion: as rare as it gets, or so the guides said, and they ought to pray they were right with the amount of money they made him shell out for the privilege of killing it. Like the boiling sun made manifest, burning white-hot on the plain like an angel come to earth.
(Father fell when he smashed the little wooden thing into his head just once – Father had hit him with it over and over and over, but when Father was hit with it he fell just like that. Something bubbles up in his chest at the thought of it, hiccupy and loud and almost like he’s about to vomit, but in a good way.)
Belinda will adore the pelt, he’s sure of that. It’ll make for a remarkable bedspread, something to keep her warm on cold nights for decades to come, to remind her of him with every stroke of its diamantine fur. If he didn’t have to worry about keeping the pelt intact he’d have it made into a shawl for her, or a coat (what a Heracles she’d make – the thought brings a curl to his lip and a shake to the irons of his rifle). What husband wouldn’t yearn to send his wife such a gift? What wife wouldn’t shake with jealousy to see another in such a garment?
(The wooden lump had swung down one last time, and Father’s had turned into red and pink and crunchy white, like the warm red stuff spattered up his arms. It had felt good to have Father be the one hurting and crying and leaking, for once. It felt… warm.)
Perhaps one day his heirs will play on the pelt like he played on his own father’s bearskin, perched on the shoulders and roaring as his hands shook its glassy-eyed head, thick, childish fingers all but stuffed into the pelt’s ivory-toothed maw. His son will hunker down on its pelt to listen to his stories of hunts in the dark continent, of vicious tribals and vengeful foreign gods.
(A creaking floorboard, far away, but within earshot. He stiffens. Within earshot goes both ways: Father taught him that. Father can’t hurt him now, though, and he can’t let anyone else hurt him either, so he needs to hurt them first. Hurt them so bad they’ll never tell, and make sure no one can tell he hurt them either. Father would see the footprints if he snuck out. The other voices would tell him, and Father would know, and Father would hurt him for it. Maybe they’ll tell someone else who’ll hurt him if they know he’s out. He grabs a mask and a big, thick piece of fabric that he knows goes around his chest as he grabs a knife, wraps himself in them to catch the red he knows he’ll make.)
The beast yawns, stretches, shakes out its glorious white mane. He lines up his shot, right behind its shoulder. Clean through both lungs. A perfect kill, and the beast won’t have time to bleed all over its shining white coat.
(The rest of the world is all soft floors and warm light filtering in through holes in the walls, gentle on his feet as he stumbles his way towards the noise, weapon in hand. He manages the stairs on all fours, clumsy and unsure, weapon still clamped awkwardly in his good hand, floorboards creaking and groaning under him. They have to know he’s here. He has to make sure they won’t tell anyone else.)
All seems still and silent, the barrel like a heated iron under the sun, the lion’s shape shimmering in the haze.
(He won’t go back in the cellar. He won’t go back to the cold and dark and the hurt, never never never never never-)
It won’t stop him.
(If he closes his eyes when he smashes the door down, he feels like he’ll open them back in the cellar, so he keeps them wide to the point of hurt as he forces his way into the room. Someone smaller than father is scrambling back on the bed, mouth open yet completely silent. He won’t hesitate. Neither of them will hesitate, so he swings before that mouth can make any sound again.)
It’s a beautiful day when he takes the shot.