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Warning for gore. Here is a still of the crime scene from above, for better reference of what a damn mess it is. And here is a .gif set and Will and the stag as it goes charging to fulfill its kill order. The pendulum swing tends to be something like this, too.
You are at a crime scene, an open area covered with snow that has been made gruesome by a killer yet to be identified. Two bodies, a man and a woman, have been eviscerated and dismembered, their blood a hideous splash of red all over an otherwise white setting. You step past a limb and the marker near it, and the pendulum of your mind swings so that both disappear. Time moves back, gives you a view of undisturbed snow. The process with this pendulum repeats with an arm. Then with coworkers. The blood, your boss. Time goes back entirely—day is night, logs in a small circle near you move upwards and the fire comes back to life without any help other than you turning back the clock in your own imagination.
Everything is alive again.
That man and woman walk near the fire, dressed for the weather, hold each other close. Loving. Eventually, they stop walking, turn to each other, and kiss, unaware of the predator lurking under a patch of trees, watching their every move. And you are watching. You don't know them. He didn't steal your woman, she didn't steal your man, these are not family members who ruined something for you, business associates who mucked up your workplace. These are two people in the wrong place at the wrong time for them, but in the right place at the right time for you. You've been practicing, perfecting this on local livestock, on a truck driver. This is not rage, jealousy, revenge. This is instinct.
You want to maul. To let that animal off its leash so it can take part in bloodsport. You'd never deny its natural urges, only ever help evolve them.
You stand alone, but not for long. A large, feathered stag steps out next to you, holds his head up and watches the same sweet scene you're watching. You don't turn to look at him, you know he's there. He knows you're there. No greetings, no holding your hand out to scratch an ear, neither of you make a move to recognize each other at all until you speak, just one word:
"Kill."
He takes off, head lowered, obeys your order without hesitation. Antlers make quick work of everything being alive, tear across necks, scatter blood. You're not simply looking on as your beast does the dirty work, though. When his head lowers to pull at a stomach, it's you that ends up covered in the mess and doing the mauling. No beast. You. There is no animal on a leash. There is nothing but you doing what it is your nature. Killing, taking apart these people who are nothing more than meat to you.
You are the beast.
You snap back to the present, staring down at the cold, lifeless bodies, a new profile forming in your mind and coming out of your mouth.
"It's not an animal. It's a man who wants to be an animal."
You would know, wouldn't you? You were there, after all.
You are at a crime scene, an open area covered with snow that has been made gruesome by a killer yet to be identified. Two bodies, a man and a woman, have been eviscerated and dismembered, their blood a hideous splash of red all over an otherwise white setting. You step past a limb and the marker near it, and the pendulum of your mind swings so that both disappear. Time moves back, gives you a view of undisturbed snow. The process with this pendulum repeats with an arm. Then with coworkers. The blood, your boss. Time goes back entirely—day is night, logs in a small circle near you move upwards and the fire comes back to life without any help other than you turning back the clock in your own imagination.
Everything is alive again.
That man and woman walk near the fire, dressed for the weather, hold each other close. Loving. Eventually, they stop walking, turn to each other, and kiss, unaware of the predator lurking under a patch of trees, watching their every move. And you are watching. You don't know them. He didn't steal your woman, she didn't steal your man, these are not family members who ruined something for you, business associates who mucked up your workplace. These are two people in the wrong place at the wrong time for them, but in the right place at the right time for you. You've been practicing, perfecting this on local livestock, on a truck driver. This is not rage, jealousy, revenge. This is instinct.
You want to maul. To let that animal off its leash so it can take part in bloodsport. You'd never deny its natural urges, only ever help evolve them.
You stand alone, but not for long. A large, feathered stag steps out next to you, holds his head up and watches the same sweet scene you're watching. You don't turn to look at him, you know he's there. He knows you're there. No greetings, no holding your hand out to scratch an ear, neither of you make a move to recognize each other at all until you speak, just one word:
"Kill."
He takes off, head lowered, obeys your order without hesitation. Antlers make quick work of everything being alive, tear across necks, scatter blood. You're not simply looking on as your beast does the dirty work, though. When his head lowers to pull at a stomach, it's you that ends up covered in the mess and doing the mauling. No beast. You. There is no animal on a leash. There is nothing but you doing what it is your nature. Killing, taking apart these people who are nothing more than meat to you.
You are the beast.
You snap back to the present, staring down at the cold, lifeless bodies, a new profile forming in your mind and coming out of your mouth.
"It's not an animal. It's a man who wants to be an animal."
You would know, wouldn't you? You were there, after all.
