trophy
Some people hang paintings on their walls.
Others collect useless, empty sculptures. Or like chipped tea cups with lipstick stains of dead royals
or unplayable guitars previously owned by Rock legends. Believe me, I’ve seen it all. And all are the same.
Void of life.
Void of feeling.
While most millionaires and well-to-do’s decorate their investor’s portfolio with “timeless” antiques and so-called masterpieces, I fill my halls with the taxidermized trophies of my weekly hunting trips. Just as my father and his before him, and every generation of Wellington men. There was a time when that feeling was enough to keep me satisfied. That ultimate rush of adrenaline as soon as my finger clenches down on the trigger. The seductive warmth of the intestines and innards of my prizes as I gut them and hose them out. The delight I feel as I stuff them with cotton, or when I comb through their fur, or when picking the perfect glass eyes to match their personality.
Were they an easy kill?
Or did they make me work for it?
It’s addicting, as if God lent his powers unto trusty rifle, passing his will from the down from the heavens and onto my capable shoulders. It used to be enough. But another craving has been blurring my senses.
A craving for her.
I’ve known Scarlett Mcgill since she wore her virgin red hair in french braids. I remember how they used to whip in the air like unsuspecting cow tails. Sometimes, they’d graze up against the on-sale muskets on the display wall behind the counter any time I walked through the doors of her family’s hunting supply store. We were just kids, both chained to the paths our parents planned for us. Mine being the sole heir to the Wellington estate and hunting grounds, hers being the future manager of the Mcgill's Hunting Gear and Supply store. Our engagement was always planned, both in my head and on paper. One might even say that our first date was orchestrated by her mother. But I didn’t mind. I assume she didn’ either, after all, she never said anything to make me think otherwise.
But things have been changing recently. Not like the inevitable switch of seasons, but like a tropical storm ruining a perfect Florida day. The tides turned last month, when I pulled into my gravel driveway with the infamous brown bear that had been terrorizing the local campers hog tied to the top of my charred ruby pickup.
Scarlett, my golden trophy, normally waited on my front porch for me to return from my hunting trips with grandpa Wellington. She’d hold a thumbs up in the distance, applauding my newest kill as I held it up by the limp hind legs of whatever i managed to shoot. She has always been the best listener. She’d sit on the hand carved rocking chair on the porch, her pigtails swaying softly, batting her doe hazel eyes as I told her in detail how I shot and provided dinner for my family. Her praise was one of her best attributes, so much so that my stomach growls for it. I shot bunnies, stuffed deer, and replaced the eyes of Bucky brown bear with imported glass replicas just for a thumbs up and light applause. Sure, I would have done those things anyway, but her attention to those details made me believe in fate. It was almost as if her pride in my trophies made her my shiniest one of all.
But over the years, her reactions faded, almost to the point of avoidance. She hadn’t even made the effort to meet me at the window that day.
I remember unhooking the bear from the top of my car, rolling my eyes as the blooded smeared down the windshield, and dragging him into my garage. Crunching on the pebbled driveway, I made my way over to the front door, inching myself through the entry foyer passed the ceiling oak doors and up the Victorian winding stairs, my boots tracking in mud and what I remember to be blood. But I didn’t care. My hunter senses were on fire, and my ears were already twitching to detect where my trophy was hiding. The staircase was carpeted with a vintage rug my great great grandmother Bertha chose when they originally built the house. Normally, I would remove my filthy gear by the door, but I knew Bertha would understand. When a hunter gets a feeling, a hunter must follow that feeling.
Giggles clawed out from the gapped bottom of the bathroom door. I listened in.
“Stop it, it’s not funny. If he knocks on my door and dangles another dead bunny above my white carpet I’m going to hog tie him to the chandelier,” Her whispers sharpened. “Babe, please come pick me up. Denny has the car and I don’t want to take any of his things when I leave,” she said, her voice screeching like cat nails on a dusty chalkboard. “I just want to leave.”
The betrayal shot from her mouth, aiming for my heart, but bludgeoning my gut instead. Though I’d never admit this out loud, My Scarlett, my trophy, betrayed me. Even with my entire collection of stuffed animals, they would have no value without my main supporter, my centerpiece.
The bathroom door swung open, banging against the toe of my boot, revealing a new Scarlett. She was fresh out of the shower with black mascara caked beneath her eyes as steam gasped from the bathroom into the hallway. The nose ring she had taken out years ago found its place back in her nostril. But her hair, her beautiful virgin hair, was no longer pure. It was black, streaking down onto her white towel which was lazily held against her body.
I hated it. It was as if she was hiding. From herself. From me.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” I spurted, my eyes burning into hers.
Her shock was obvious, her breaths panting between each word, “Tomorrow? Um, nothing I think.”
I could hear her heart hammering, her pores leaking fear.
It’s the same smell I find in the woods, right before I take my shot.
“Come hunting with me. I found a spot I think you’d like.”
Those were the last words we spoke to each other that day, other than a quick “thank you,” when I opened the passenger door or when I offered a swig from my flask. As we drove in between the endless trees and up the winding mountain I could feel her distance, despite only being a few inches away. But that would change soon. Her eyes were fixated on the trees, the speckled leaves, the green of summer morphing into the warm orange of autumn. Anything she could possibly find in the complete opposite direction of my face. If that wasn’t an admission of guilt, I don’t know what is.
We stopped, parked, and began the trek. My rifle was swung over my shoulder, swaying with each step as she walked ahead of me over to the edge of the cliff. The view stretched for miles, revealing a haze of mountains, bubbling pink clouds and plummeting ravines.
My trophy glistened in the sunlight, frozen amongst the rest of the beauty. She was distracted, enough for me to reach back for my rifle, aiming for her sternum.
But that was the past, a dark memory we don’t discuss anymore. Now, we enjoy our morning coffee in our rocking chairs facing the front yard. I read her a chapter of Pride and Prejudice every day, her favorite novel. So when I look into her custom imported hazel glass eyes, and rake my hand through her custom red wig, we laugh about the old days. Well, I laugh.
She listens.
Forever.