The rain had stopped. Cold sun bled between the trees.
‘Killer instinct,’ his father whispered, ‘is what’s made me who I am today.’
But all Scott saw was an alcoholic, diabetic divorcee.
‘You’re the hunter or the prey. Now pull the trigger.’
The rifle’s heaviness surprised him. His grasp was unsteady.
‘Choose one. And shoot.’
‘I can’t,’ Scott said.
‘Yes, you can.’
The stock felt warm on his cheek, the trigger cold against his finger.
Scott steadied the sight. And squeezed.
The shot echoed and released birds as the frightened deer ran past the splintered tree into the cold light.
Thanks to Bikurgurl for organising and coordinating these 100 Word Wednesdays each week.