The Blind Hunter


The early evening took its grim hold of the sky, now a dark purple veil that bled above his world. The gloom was only dispelled by the moon that peeked from behind clouds of polluted air. Night was taking over. It was the hour of his kind.

Hungry… The voice whispered in the Blind Hunter as he spread his dark wings. The dusk had crept upon the wood with an icy touch, the hint of a long, dull winter to come. Like the others of his kind, the Blind Hunter couldn’t see very well, but even in his fur, he could feel the cut of the autumn’s wind, and hear the murmurs of the leaves that withered and fluttered off the old cedars. He didn’t like this. A winter meant that most insects would die, and he would have a harder time feeding himself, adding salt to his wound. Right now, he was navigating through the wood deftly, hoping to come across a moth or a wasp, something he could take a nibble at. Hungry…

The thought of feeding on insects filled the Blind Hunter with disdain. His kind was unlike most other creatures. They would feed on insects, fruits, and some even on small animals like rats, but the banquet they relished most was the red liquid pumping through the veins of other creatures. The Blind Hunter had been a young of two when he’d had his first taste at the ‘red nectar’. Back then, there was a barn not far from the cave he lived in. He still remembered the dark night, when he nervously sneaked up on a cow. Amidst the cows’ snores, he sank his fangs into her flesh and sucked from her vein. At the next instant, he could feel the red nectar swimming between his teeth, filling his mouth and sending his own blood rushing into his head. It was an exquisite so delightful that he had since then despised insects and fruits.

But you’re hungry… The faint voice reminded him. Winter is coming, and there isn’t much food left… The Blind Hunter wasn’t pleased, but he had to feast on insects. The wood had grown thinner, and the days when larger mammals could be found all over the land were gone. The glints of winter howled again, sending the Blind Hunter shivering in his black fur, reminding him of his subservience to hunger. He had been searching through the wood for hours, and his belly remained empty. Now, you’ve no choice. You need a moth or a fly. Something small will do…

The Blind Hunter both loved and dreaded hunger. It used to be the prelude to a feast, but now it was looming, threatening to kill him. He didn’t fancy death – he had seen what happened to the dead of his kind. In the cave where they rested while hung upside down, the dying and the sick would fall from the ceiling, down onto the grey earth where worms and beetles would come and eat their flesh. The creeping dread of seeing his kin devoured by the swarm made the Blind Hunter wince. And by then the voice inside him was praying, Just a fly will do… A fly will do…

Hungry… the Blind Hunter jerked as the thought of hunger took over his mind. A moth… a wasp… whatever will do… He glided from trees to trees, wishing to see a fly or two, his heart ticking as his stomach growled louder.





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