The Boy Of Prey (Excerpts From Draft)

1

"Wren's Jabber"

A  hawk pursues his prey, hidden by the sky, his eyes wide and his beak agape as he winds in and out of the lanky trees surrounding him. To many, observing such birds catch their meals, to watch their mighty talons wrap around the frail torso of a woodland creature, is both an oddly enlightening and disturbing experience. When it comes to the hawk's prey, though, it is nothing more than a petrifying change in perspective. The hawk meets Death at a crossroads in the sky, and while gently flapping his loose wings the hawk speaks,
"For my life, to quench my hunger, I bring you a soul only burdened by purity."
"For her death, to quench your longing," Death carefully speaks as she takes the rabbit out from the hawk's curved, black claws and into her loving embrace, "I bring you another day without ravishing." The hawk is a sad being; he aimlessly explores the world without purpose beyond survival, as any simple creature. But, for the hawk, his days go without a settled, short number. To be killed when you are a rabbit is to be set free. There is no more fretting about starvation, thirst, pain, or approaching death. But, no animal strong or driven enough to slay a hawk roams the sky, so he hunts and feasts every day–knowing that soon he shall slowly starve or grow deathly ill. The hawk will die in solitude while experiencing all of the anguish he had to inflict upon the diminutive fauna below him.
"I thank you," The hawk nods his feathered head. He curves his wings and smoothly glides down to the forest floor. He breathes in the scent of his surroundings and slowly rests his feet atop the ragged grass. And, though he rid himself of the knocking pain in his stomach, he wishes only for death. A hawk's only exhausting purpose is to devour.

***

" In Italy, 1919, January 14th marked the first recorded birth of a monster. A girl was born to the likeness of a lamb, with beady, orange eyes, long, black ears, an upturned snout, and a body covered in wool. Recognized as some sort of chronic disease, the genetic mutation was named: 'Judas's Livestock' and described as an unscrupulous DNA alteration among roughly 4% of newborn children coming from parents of poverty, malnourishment, and commonplace interaction with animals. Such children were either to be executed or raised only to obey human nature. "

"Good morning!" Nox rose out of his bed and sang out to the stuffed toys on his bed happily. He stretched out his arms, smiling wildly, his cheeks flushing with excitement. Though his covers seemed to implore him to stay, Nox kicked them aside and scampered out to his bedside. He hastily threw on his slippers and wrapped himself in a robe. His window seemed to flash with a myriad of enticing colours as he ran by. Nox stopped in an instant and scurried back to glare at the sight. The sun was just beginning to rise. Nox fidgeted with glee; he rarely saw the beauty of an early morning sky. Nox raced back through his room and eagerly approached his calendar. September fourth, Nox yanked a pen out from his desk and quickly marked inside the small, square box:
'FIRST DAY– YEAR 12!' In janky, messy penmanship. His room was practically empty of furniture. It consisted of only his oak-wood bed, mirror, nightstand, dresser, and collection of frivolous plush toys. Nox approached his dressing cabinet and whipped the clothes his mother had chosen for him off from the top. He jostled the collection of dust off from his blouse; a ridiculous article of clothing of an unsightly pinkish-white colour covered in lines of girly frill. Mother had always envisioned for him to dress in the most quaint of manners as if covering himself in pinks, reds, ruffles, and frills made him some sort of gentleman. She described the style of attire as 'elegance of innocence' or 'the pristine youth'--Nox called it sissification. Nox yanked off his pyjama pants and forced on his trousers. He glowered, finding that his stomach simply wouldn't fit adequately underneath his waistband without rolls of fat sticking up and out of it. He always had a somewhat chubby stature, with round cheeks and wide legs–but never to this degree. Nox turned and snagged a belt from off of his bedroom floor, clasping it tightly around his waist. He snapped each buckle of his trouser suspenders over his shoulder and picked his neckpiece up from his nightstand. His neckpiece was just as despicable and undeniably atrocious as his blouse. It was a red, faux gemstone surrounded by a yellow rimming that held another plume of ruffles. Nox hooked it onto his shirt with a groan and trotted out of his room.