Humanity

The boy clings to the tree trunk, a feral silhouette against the dusky sky, his small frame taut with a beast's readiness despite the tremble of youth in his limbs. His black claws sink deep into the bark, splintering it like brittle bone, anchoring him as his heart thuds wildly, a relentless drum pumping molten blood through his veins. Below, the mutated deer stares up, its red coat rippling with sinewy muscle, a living ember in the forest's gloom. Its antlers—jet-black, serrated as a jagged blade—catch the faint light, glinting like obsidian honed to a killing edge. Their eyes lock, his dark and flickering with rage, its own burning with predatory fury, and the air hums with the weight of impending violence.

The deer moves first, a crimson blur of unnatural speed, shattering the boy's hesitation—a child's fear still clinging to his immature resolve. It charges the tree, hooves churning the earth, antlers slashing upward with a vicious arc. Bark explodes into splinters, sharp as shrapnel, and the boy kicks downward, aiming for its skull. His bare foot grazes its head, but a tine catches his calf, slicing through skin like a hot knife through wax. Blood spills, hot and scarlet, streaking down his leg in sticky rivulets, pooling at his clawed toes. Panic seizes him, a cold spike through his chest—he's prey unless he harnesses the rage boiling inside, the predator he must become to survive this relentless beast.

The deer slams the trunk again, its strength a thunderous jolt that cracks the wood with an ominous groan. The boy's grip falters, claws tearing free in a shower of bark, and he crashes to the ground, breath punched from his lungs in a ragged gasp. Dirt grits against his scarred skin as he scrambles backward, recovering just as the deer lunges—a crimson flash, antlers descending like twin guillotines. Their edges, jagged as shattered glass, whistle through the air, promising death with every glint. He twists aside, heart lurching, but a tine grazes his shoulder, ripping through flesh and muscle in a wet, searing tear. Blood gushes, a crimson curtain over his pale arm, the shredded meat pulsing with agony that claws at his spine. His reflexes—raw, untested—spare him a fatal skewering, but terror surges, defiance warring with the dread in his trembling frame. The deer's eyes blaze, a predator's mirror he can't outrun, and he knows he's cornered.

Rage flickers to life, a ember fanned by pain, and his claws lengthen, black tips gleaming as he slashes at the deer. It's a clumsy strike, more defiance than skill, but it grazes the beast's flank, drawing a thin line of blood. The deer retaliates, antlers slashing in arcs that mimic a swordmaster's dance, its speed a relentless storm. Each lunge carves new wounds—shallow cuts blooming across his arms, a deeper gash along his ribs, blood soaking his tattered shirt. The beast's agility outpaces him, a whirlwind of red and black he can't match. Yet instinct sharpens his gaze, tracing the rhythm of its charges—head low, antlers forward, a pattern he can break. He stumbles, breath hitching, and decides: no more dodging. The next charge comes, and he leaps downward, claws outstretched, aiming for its leg. His nails sink into sinew, ripping through with a sickening pop, and the deer tumbles, its massive frame crashing to the earth in a cloud of dust.

He doesn't hesitate. With a guttural snarl, he pounces, small hands seizing its throat, claws piercing the thin flesh beneath its jaw. The deer thrashes, antlers flailing like scythes, but he pins it, knees digging into its chest, and slams its head against the ground—once, twice, each impact a wet thud that jars his bones. Blood spatters his face, warm and coppery, as rage consumes him, a wildfire in his soul. His fangs—sharp as daggers now—plunge into its neck, tearing through muscle with desperate, savage bites. He rips again, then again, flesh shredding beneath his teeth, until the deer's struggles fade, its body slumping lifeless. With a final, frenzied gnaw, he severs its head, antlers clattering to the dirt, and collapses beside it, chest heaving, blood-slicked and trembling.

Exhaustion crashes over him, a heavy tide that drowns the adrenaline's fire, leaving his small frame slumped in the dirt. He sits there, breath ragged, staring at the deer's mangled corpse—relief washing through him, bitter and cold, He's not the one lifeless, not the one torn beyond recognition, and that thought steadies his shaking hands, grounding him in the grim victory. Slowly, he rises, wounds pulsing beneath a crust of blood and grime, each movement a groan of protest from his torn body. He grips the beast's flank, fingers sinking into its cooling flesh, and hunger—a raw, gnawing beast of its own—spurs him forward. His fangs, still sharp from the fight, pierce the meat hesitantly at first, tearing off a small chunk. Blood trickles over his lips, warm and metallic, staining his chin in slow, deliberate drops, soaking the tattered remnants of his white shirt—a mournful scene etched in the forest's shadows.

As he feeds, the act drags on, each bite a labored effort, his jaw trembling with fatigue and something deeper—grief he can't name. The forest's faint hum stirs faintly in his bones, a distant lullaby to his ruin, and his wounds begin to respond. The gash on his calf, a deep, weeping slash, crusts at the edges, the blood clotting in sluggish patches as torn skin inches together, a crawling mend that stings with every flex. His shoulder, a shredded ruin of muscle and sinew, pulses with a dull, throbbing heat—flesh knitting thread by thread, each stitch an ache that lingers, the wound closing only halfway, still raw beneath the drying blood. The cracked rib, a jagged splinter in his chest, shifts painfully with each breath, fusing at a glacial pace, the bone's edges grinding as they mend, leaving him hunched and wheezing. Blood and meat fuel this slow rebirth, his healing factor stirring stronger with every swallow, his body a patchwork of scars and half-healed gashes, far from whole, a child's frame straining under a beast's burden. A boy, no older than eleven, stripped bare of innocence, kneels over his kill, face smeared with the life he's taken, his humanity a fading whisper swallowed by the wild. The forest watches in silence, its shadows deepening around a soul fractured by survival, a tragic survivor forged not in triumph but in the quiet, enduring pain of a world that stole his childhood before it even began.