Let Him
You flinch, but ultimately lower your head and grit your death as the cub lets out a single, muted cry before his voice is permanently silenced form the world. The male crouches down over the small body, tearing into it with glittering canines as you turn, heading towards the watering hole away from the scene.
Yet, within days, the death has begun to fade from your mind. The female cubs are rapidly growing, soon venturing out further and further, climbing and running together over the nearby plains where the hide spreads during the day. You watch them grow, teach them to hunt, and fall into the daily, habitual pattern of survival.
There's little conflict. Prey is common enough. Water is plentiful in the area. The cubs grow well.
Life is well.
Yet, some part of you, late at night when your eyes catch distant shadows on the horizon, basked in the last shreds of moonlight, you can't help but image they are wooden signs, driven into the dust, with your next instruction or the back button to escape the game.
What would life have held, you wonder in these dark and fleeting moments, what would life have been if you'd returned?
Written by Picklessauce69 on 25 February 2016
The end (for now)