Her Hunt

She even wondered if she couldn’t become capable of actual love.

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The best part of her day is when everyone she works with is gone.  She enjoys her coworkers; she feels no animosity towards them but she enjoys the quiet promoted by their absence.  There is no shuffling, no one sided phone conversations, no opening and shutting of doors, no murmur of business as usual.

She goes about the small office, closing window blinds, making sure all doors are locked and making notes to help start her next morning.  These menial tasks give her comfort in a rushed and bustling world.

Her evening tasks give credence to the fact that she has survived another day.

She has kept to this job for five consecutive years.  She is proud of that fact and she is also proud of the fact that she has maintained her resolve not to hunt any longer.  She often ponders and searches for reasons as to why she hunts at all;  it isn’t her fault. Not really.  Perhaps.

The last successful hunt certainly wasn’t her fault and that fiasco was what strengthened her resolve to retire from all the complications and angst a hunt can and does cause.  She was tired, exhausted really and there he was, ready to rescue her. They all wanted to rescue her.  That was the emotion or reaction, empowering a man to come to her rescue, that was the crucible of her weakness; that weakness which invoked her power. Her prowess.

She had moved from Atlanta to Minneapolis.  The heat in Atlanta was excruciating and she only lasted one year there.  That complicated Minneapolis considerably.  She felt so mercenary in Atlanta.  She had just left Philadelphia and moved to Atlanta and in each of those cities she had fulfilled a hunt and that complicated things.  Philadelphia went smoothly, the hunt lasted three years and basically she tired of it and finished it.  But then she became too full of herself, she did not research Atlanta at all.  The only fact she focused upon was that Atlanta seemed happening, sharp, quick and she was in the mood to fit in.  The heat hit her like a ton of bricks and she got messy.  Minneapolis was just what the doctor ordered.

But Minneapolis proved too fertile a place.  She thought that perhaps she would try being normal and settle down.  Minneapolis would have been the place.  She knew that it wouldn’t happened, even while contemplating white picket fences, still a chance for kids… She knew eventually her weakness would take over.

And what a weakness, her power.  It took a certain type, granted.  There were those who seemed to feel that she wasn’t quite right, those who needed to be rescued themselves– she despised men like that.  Men who either couldn’t find their socks in the morning or needed that deep mental and heart felt connection.  No, those were not her type.  What brought about her weakness were men, prey, who insisted that she needed rescuing.

The sex was spontaneous to them and well calculated to her; the desperate moves, the weak knees, her weeping and his inevitable vitality expanding in his chest and the moving of heaven and earth to keep her safe.

She lasted in New York for almost two whole years but woke up one morning, felt that driving urge to make him beg for mercy and slipped the tiny needle in while he finished his last deed.

She was grateful that in Atlanta there was no beneficiary money – not coming so quickly from Philadelphia.  That would have definitely sent up some red flags to the densest of people.

Philadelphia certainly set her up for life – as wild a ride as that was.  She even wondered if she couldn’t become capable of actual love.  But in the end she needed to feel him drain, fade away, dissipate.

Now, five years later, not really needing to work but needing a place to belong she had managed to avoid the rescuing type.  She tried hard not to involve herself at all with coworkers, there were too many knights in shining armor to go around to worry her fellow coworkers.

No, the more expensive restaurants and upscale bars were the happy hunting grounds.  Certainly no clubs.  The fact of the matter was, however, she wasn’t getting any younger.  She still liked to keep that perfect distance in age but the rescuing type were not frequenting restaurants and bars as much.  Perhaps she was finally seeing them go extinct.

She hoped not.  She had one more move in her.  One more teary-eyed farewell for the onlookers to appreciate and then, yes then retire, dropping her alias and maybe even going home.

Perhaps the hard working delivery man who seems to expand his chest when she signs for deliveries would do.  They chit chat about the weather, he tries to make eye contact with her.  Perhaps she can manage a little sorrow on Monday to see if the fellow will follow after.

 

Author: SK Woodiwiss and SW Woodiwiss

We are writers. We love flash fiction, short stories, poetry, and novels. We love to write ghost stories but have tried our hand at simple conversations, inner fears and peeked into the madness of the mind. Our greatest love is the novel and its ability to explore character development. We simply enjoy the writing process.

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