Dear, Deer

You hear an abrupt knocking at your cabin window.

It is a merely a deer, though the distance it seems to be at seems unreasonably far for it to have tapped your window.

It is only a deer, but the way it stares at you is unsettling. Staring, staring, staring. The forest is quiet, and the only thing that convinces you to go back to sleep is the vast, starry sky.

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You wake up early in the morning to get work done at the office. You spill your coffee, and accidentally knock your files into the paper shredder.

You end up not getting much done.

You decide to visit a friend's house. The door is unlocked, and you are startled to discover that the girl you were dating is sleeping in his bed. You close the door as to not disturb them.

You hear the same knocking at your cabin window. The deer is standing there again, though this time, it seems to have one eye too many. Its deep, black eyes seem to absorb you into the void. Staring, staring, staring. The quiet croaking of a frog lulls you back to sleep.

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You wake up early again to go to the office. As usual, Millie is there. Millie is the secretary that seduces fucking everybody. She asks you out on a date. You reject her, because Millie is an asshole. Everybody feels that way around her and your coworkers all want her gone.

You hear a knock on your cabin window. It's the deer, but this time, it is covered in entrails. Intestines drape on its antlers like some sort of freakish party ribbons, various organs impaled on, in such a similar fashion as a kabob. Liver, stomach, lung, all stacked upon one another on a bony skewer. Oozing, dripping, gushing. It lowers its head, as if inviting you to take a bite out of the horrible buffet laid out in its antlers.

The deer had a heart in its mouth. It was still beating.

The familiar sound of crickets erases your worries, and you go back to sleep.

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The next day, Millie is gone.

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Today is a saturday. You turn on the TV and help yourself to a bagel. You get yourself cozy in the couch, when BREAKING NEWS!, it says at the top of the screen. A mass shooting has occurred in the office you work in the night before. It has been discovered that the act was carried out by someone who worked in the office.

You are stunned.

You do nothing but sit in that couch all day.

There is a knock on the cabin window. It is the deer. You expected the deer, but this time, you are taken aback from horror. The deer's antlers swarm with crows' heads ominously skewered on the antlers, cawing, crying, swarming, screaming as if trying to say something, but all that comes out is garbled nonsense. The deer's face ceased to resemble a deer's face, in fact, it was reduced to nothing but bloody sinews changing, melting, twisting, contorting, writhing, deforming into nothing that resembled anything on this wretched world of ours, and ours alone. The holes burbled out with blood as dark as the abyss, and streamed down its body in great drips, and onto the floor. You could not make out any human expression but one, sorrow.

The most horrible thing of all, though, was the sound it was making. It was the calling of a million souls born from hell itself, beckoning, suffering, weeping. It cried with such a broken, desperate voice that reverberated through your ears, and back again. Weeping, weeping, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding.

The trees tower above, and peer down at your existence. The moon shines peacefully, mockingly. The sky is quiet, and the vast galaxy reminds you of how small you are compared to it on this cruel, cruel world.

You cower in your bed. You do not want to see this monster. It's not there, it's not there. The thought of imagining the monster out of existence calms you to sleep.

———————-

You wake up, groggy from last night. You slowly drag yourself out of bed, stumbling over your own sheet covers. A bottle of liquid spills onto the floor.

You open the freezer. Millie's remains are in there. You stick your hand into the freezer and pull out a tub of vanilla ice cream. Blood drips out of the freezer. You walk past a table, the tablecloth soaked in blood from the butcher's knife lying there. You slump on the couch, and, not really knowing what you're doing, splatter the entire tub of ice cream onto your face. You lie there for 5 minutes, and the ice cream slowly melts. Dripping, dripping, you catch a glimpse of something in the corner of your eye. It was a picture of your mother, but you're not sure why that was important. Then, you notice the gun.

You suddenly realize what is going on.

You lay on your couch alone, sobbing through the tub of ice cream. The ice cream, by now, has reached the floor. Those stains aren't going to come out. You get up suddenly, and grab the picture of your mother.

It's in an old wooden frame, no larger than the standard sheet of paper. Old, dusty, and in black in white, the face of your mother is calming and reassuring. You remember her talking to you about her childhood, how it used to be better. It was more joyful back then; it was safer back then. And yet, there was a certain sadness in her tone of voice when she spoke to you about these memories, and now that you look again at her picture, she seems to wear an expression of mechanholy. All of a sudden, your view is blurred by your tears.

You can't see your mother's face anymore. It's been covered by ice cream. Your body shakes, you can hear your voice waver. Your hands, unsteady and trembling, drop the picture, and the glass shatters into a million pieces.

The sound is devastating. For a moment, it was the only sound in the house. You let out broken cry of despair. You miss her, you miss her. She's been gone for ten years. You kneel down at the shattered mess, weeping your tears and soaking your shirt.

"I'm sorry, mother." you cry. You want her to be there to comfort you. Though, nobody answers.

What do you do now? How will you support yourself? How long will it be until the police comes knock-knocking at your door? These thoughts run through your head as you lie on the couch, ice cream all over yourself.

I think I'd better clean myself up, you thought.

You don't hear a knock on the window, but you look anyway. It is the deer. But now, it was nothing but a headless stump on four legs. It just stands there. And yet, you can hear something. At this point you don't question where it comes from, but the sound is faint, and quiet.

The deer utters something, and you realize, it was song. You recognize it somewhere. You sit on your bed listening to its slow, haunting melody.

Sleep, sleep, lulla-by

Sleep, sleep, lulla-by

Dream, dream, lulla-by

Dream, dream, lulla-by

Weep, weep, lulla-by

Weep, weep, lulla-by

Soft and silken, golden hair

What would she say if she was there?

Cries of sorrow, cries of despair

One of their own kind unto themselves, beware

Do you remember when he was here?

You and her in the corner cowering in fear

Rest your anger, rest your tears,

It's okay, I'll be here

I am the voice of the deer

I am the voice of the deer

Sleep, sleep lulla-by

Sleep, sleep, lulla-by

You are crying. You don't know why you are crying, or why the deer was singing this song, but all you knew was that she was listening. You look up to the starry, starry sky, and as vast and endless as it is, it is beautiful. You come forth and embrace the deer. Blood burbles from the stump, but you don't care. You felt safe.

The deer sings its melody again, and the lullaby calms you to sleep.

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You get up in the morning. You are in an unusually good mood. You peer in the mirror. There, staring at you in your reflection is the face of a deer.

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