The Last Hunt

The burnt crimson leaves signaled autumn's decline. It's ashame, you know. Autumn was always my favorite time of year. My father and I would pick a weekend that he had off and go into the woods in search of deers. The deer were always so abundant in the fall. I fondly remember the cool breeze racing down the mountainside gently tickling our faces. We parked the truck near the highway and began to walk down an old dirt path that bicyclists would use during the spring. Now the path lay vacant, as my father and I walked only to be disturbed by the lovely songs of birds. The leaves fall softly, crunching under our feet. Every once and awhile, my father would stop and listen. I,of course, followed suit. He would have appeared to be a statue to anyone who came upon him, if it had not been for his low, deep breathing. He breathed softly and listened closely. This went on for a long time. It was probably just a few minutes but it felt like hours. I heard a loud click, and saw him slowly raise his gun until one eye was fixed on the sight. He remained standing completely still. He turned his head toward me and softly said, "Come on." With that he bolted into the trees. I briefly looked back only to see the winding path disappear behind the trees.
I tried to keep up with him,  but instead found myself clutching my side, out of breath. I sat down on a large rock jutting out of the ground to catch my breath. Finally recovered, I continued my search. He was a very good hunter, and he taught me well. I noticed that several of the branches and twigs were broken creating an unnatural path. The path continued deeper into the woods. My pace was quickened by my anxiety, as my father's path began to fade. I soon found myself in front of a large pond, noticed I myself staring into the cool, pristine mirror. I heard some rustling across the pond. Looking up, I saw an enormous buck drinking from the pool. He lifted his head and looked into my eyes. His antlers were like tree trunks. He stood proud and strong. It would have been wrong to stand up and leave the presence of this noble creature. I slowly stood up, averting my gaze. The buck looked at me and I, in turn, looked at him. A loud crack shattered the air, and the buck was gone. I heard rustling behind me. My father emerged from the trees, the barrel of his gun still smoking. He looked at me, only to softly say, "Come on." Once again, he disappeared into the woods. I reluctantly followed. As I walked, I noticed specks of blood on the trees and the ground. The more I followed the thicker the blood was pooling. I entered a clearing, only to see my father plunging a knife into the chest of his catch. It was the buck I had seen near the lake. The once noble creature now lay cut, his blood mixing with the dirt and the mud. I ran to my father pushing him out of the way. I knelt before the fallen animal, like a worshipper in front of a pagan alter. My father shoved the knife into my hands, and pointed toward the buck. I closed my eyes and plunged the knife into the chest of the helpless animal, cutting it open just enough to see his once beating heart. I dropped the knife, slowly stepping back from the carcass. My father finished cutting the meat. After he finished, we began our journey back to the winding path. I looked back only to see the one proud animal laying there cut up and bloodied, dead never to return.
Back on the path, my father and I walked back to the truck in silence. We soon arrived at the truck and left for home. After that, I never had the stomach to go hunting like I use too. Sure, every once and awhile my father would ask me to go but I would tell him that I had plans or something. He continued to go to the same spot with out me. Dad's dead now but every once in awhile I drive past the spot and I think of him and how much I regret not going with him on our long autumn hunts.