She stomped her boot on the garter snake's head and looked sorry. For hours we had searched for the copperhead and later, any copperhead. Now the sun was going down so she killed what she could find.
“You know they never hurt nobody.”
“You know I have to do something.”
She sounded like her child-self. Like a girl closer to ten than to seventeen. For a second, I thought I saw her eyes plead with mine, asking me to hold back my judgement. But the longer I looked, the more I felt her scrutiny. It wasn’t my approval she needed and she scorned at the suggestion she might.
She carried her kill in a loose fist. I carried the shovel meant for a more dangerous snake. When we arrived at the clearing, she squatted next to the tin tackle box. The latch was broken and one of the hinges had fallen off. She opened it and choked on the sharp sob that’d been stuck in her throat since morning.
The cat had lived with her for fourteen years. His jaw made a terrible snap sound as she pried it open. I knelt beside them. I could see the puncture marks on his neck, the blood matted and dried on his grey fur.
I watched her wedge the black snake between his teeth. She placed the cat, immortalized now as a hunter, back into the box. We would sit, she said, until night fell.Then she would place the box into the grave she dug and she would be the one to fill it with dirt.
She did not scrape grime out from under her finger nails. She let flies flit across her face. She did not fidget. When a wasp got tangled in her straw blonde hair, I wanted to save them both, but she sat still and unbothered. I made no attempt. When the wasp finally freed itself, I cursed it for not having the courage to sting.
Photo creds to:
Photo by 岁月 如歌 on Unsplash
Photo by Tim Foster on Unsplash