~
March–my month of birth and what is considered by many to be a gateway to spring. For me personally, however, it is a time that, due to a recent series of events, I have come to know as Hunting Season, a custom whose origin was first conceived among the stars (or so I believe). I can imagine it: Ursa Major barreling ruthlessly towards the placid currents of the milky way and the innocent, unsuspecting life it harbours–bioluminescent fish with large, kaleidoscope eyes. They swim about in a delicate array of colour, one that is suddenly bombarded by a catastrophic whirl of fangs and claws.
This is the inevitable nature of Hunting Season: the beast pursues and the beast destroys. It is an occurrence that takes place, not just in the heavens, but on the earth as well. Perhaps the humans that inhabit this planet have just simply followed suit. Perhaps our horoscopes—the stars— have merely dictated our fates, for we are either the predators or the prey.
Ironically enough, I am a Pisces, a child of March; therefore, I am also a child of the Hunting Season. Of course, all of this–Hunting Season, Ursa Major, fish with kaleidoscope eyes—is fictitious. I think I have concocted such a story only so I can cope with the fact that I, myself, have felt hunted. And, while nothing bad actually happened, something bad could have happened. That’s what scares me the most. Perhaps it was sheer luck that I, the prey in this scenario, escaped my hunters relatively unscathed. And I use the word “relatively” because, while I was not harmed physically in any way, the situation I am about to describe to you took somewhat of a toll on my emotional state of mind.
It was a couple of weeks ago on March 11, the day of my eighteenth birthday, that I found myself hunted.
Naturally, I planned to do what every other teenager does when they reach the big One-Eight; I planned on buying my first legal drink. In addition to this, I also had a friend of mine sleep over so she could celebrate with me. At around 12:10 AM–I had to wait until midnight for the 11th to officially begin– we’d driven to the nearest liquor store, an approximate seven minutes from my house. As a cover, I had told my sister and my mom that we were going for a McDonald’s run because a) my sister is a snitch and b) despite the fact that I was technically of age, my mother would have prohibited my escapades, knowing very well that I have always been somewhat of a lush. Luckily, my friend and I were able to slip out of the house without experiencing the least bit of scrutiny from either my sister or my mom. And so I was inherently optimistic; everything would work out just fine. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
Seven minutes later, we had arrived out our destination. I stepped out into the frigid night air, wrapping my cardigan tightly around my body; I was quite cold considering I was only in my pyjamas. My friend waiting in the car, I walked in, the little bell at the top of the door tinkling gaudily as I made my entrance. It was fairly dead inside of the store. I was the only one there except for the cashier, a slim man in a blue, knit sweater. He had soft, dark eyes—kind eyes—and was, I’m guessing, in his early to mid-twenties.
“Hi there,” I addressed him. “I had a question for you if you don’t mind.” He nodded. “I’ve just turned eighteen,” I continued, “And I know some liquor stores won’t sell to you on the day of your eighteenth. Am I able to buy from you?” I asked. Again, I wanted things to work out just fine. So I did whatever I could to make sure everything did turn out just fine. That’s why I decided to approach him proactively, especially mindful of my manners, in the hopes that I could present myself as a mature, young woman who was capable of handling the responsibility of alcohol.
“Could I see some ID please?”
“Yep,” I chirped a little too eagerly, passing him my learner’s licence, “See? March 11th, 2000 and today is March 11th.”
“Should be fine,” he smiled weakly, clearly tired from the late shift, “Just let me double check.”
As he spoke with his manager on the phone, I crossed my fingers behind my back in giddy anticipation, an oddly childish ritual that I’ve never quite been able to get out of my system. After a few moments, he gave me the final A-OK, to which I excitedly responded, “Cool! Now, where might I find your tequila?”
“All our tequila is there,” he motioned to the wall left of the till.
Unfortunately, I was around five dollars short of buying the cheapest bottle, which was a real bummer if ya ask me, but it’s not like it was the end of the world considering we were all out of limes at home anyway. So I opted to find the next best option. As I perused my other potential choices, two men entered the store.
These men are the hunters in this story.
Now, I’m sure that, judging from my allusions to “Hunting Season”, and the fact that I referred to myself as ‘prey’, you were most likely able to guess that this would be a narrative about men who prowl on women. And, up until now, maybe you, reader, thought the culprit would be the friendly cashier and that, through some unexpected plot twist, he would, in actuality, prove himself the villain.
Yeah, well, he didn’t.
Because when I said he had kind eyes, I meant it. And if it weren’t for him, I don’t t know what those other two may have tried with me. And, for the sake of my own sanity, I dare not even think about it.
In terms of appearance, it was hard to tell them apart. They were both incredibly skinny men wearing incredibly baggy jeans. Though their height is what intimidated me the most (they were each at least six foot five) especially because I’m quite small, five foot three to be exact. Of course, there was also the fact that there were two of them. So, in other words, if it came down to it, I would be outnumbered.
For the sake of clarity, I have created my own names for them: Douche Wad and Drunken Douche Wad (as is dictated by his title, Drunken Douche Wad was absolutely trashed). One notable difference between them, however, was that Douche Wad kept quiet the entire time, unlike his intoxicated counterpart. In hindsight, I should never have spoken to Drunken Douche Wad in the first place. But I often become overly talkative when I’m nervous. And from the moment Douche Wad and Drunken Douche Wad had walked in, a distant, subconscious part of me recognized that something was very off. Although I can’t quite recall how the conversation started, I do know that I wasn’t the one to initiate it, but, regardless, it went a little something like this:
“Ahhh, what you buying?” Drunken Douche Wad asked me, smacking his lips obnoxiously as he chewed on his gum.
“Oh, I don’t know yet. It’s my eighteenth birthday. I’ve never had the chance to choose from such a big selection before.”
“Heh. Happy Birfday,” he leered.
“Thanks.” I gritted my teeth.
“Heh. You get some beer, yeah?”
“Nah. I like my liquor strong.” I quipped. Really, I don’t know why I felt the need to prove myself to a complete stranger. I think maybe it came from a place of fear; I said what I did so I wouldn’t come across as being vulnerable. And I very well knew that any expression of vulnerability on my part would further put me at risk because it would have been something the Douche Wads could have potentially taken advantage of.
“Ahhh, what you like to drink then?”
“I dunno. Whiskey?” I said, in a this is a rhetorical question, so please don’t bother answering; in fact, I’d really appreciate it if you would just shut the fuck up in general kinda way.
“No, not whiskey?” Clearly, he was also a fan of the let’s punctuate our sentences like they are questions type of style. “You don’t want to get too drunk,” he persisted.
Though I’m sure he and Douche Wad wouldn’t have minded that at all. Because, judging by the way they both had been looking at me, and by the manner with which Drunken Douche Wad had spoken to me, the conclusions I made about their characters were, in no way, an exaggeration. They both had ‘perv’ written all over them.
Eventually, I settled for some vodka–a 750 mL bottle of Silent Sam for twenty-five dollars, which I was actually able to afford, unlike the tequila. Douche Wad and Drunken Douche Wad, at this point, were standing in front of me in the lineup (if you could even really call it a lineup since it only consisted of three people). As they purchased their six pack of beer–ironic, I know–I was relieved. By the time it was my turn to pay, they had left (or so I thought).
“I’m sorry about that,” the cashier remarked somewhat sadly.
“It’s not your fault,” I replied as I set Silent Sam down onto the counter.
“That’ll be twenty-five dollars.” He placed Silent Sam and a printed copy of my receipt in a plastic shopping bag and then handed it to me.
But, just as I was about to leave, I stopped short. Through the glass pane of the door, I could see them. Douche Wad and Drunken Douche Wad were leaning up against their monstrosity of a white pickup truck (probably compensating for their micro dicks, I’m sure). They were staring at me. Waiting for me. Drunken Douche Wad grinned. Frightened, I backed away from the door, back towards the till.
“You might want to wait,” insisted the cashier, who appeared to be just as concerned as I was.
Exhaling, my breath quivering slightly, I nodded and looked down at my feet, careful to not establish any form of eye contact with Douche Wad and Drunken Douche Wad. After a minute or so, clearly realizing that I would not be coming out of the store as long as they were there, the Douche Wads drove away in their penis car, Douche Wad driving and Drunken Douche Wad in the passenger’s seat. From this, at least, I was reassured that there would be no drunk driving, especially because my friend was still out in the parking lot.
“Thank you,” I turned to the cashier gratefully. “I’m glad there are still some decent men in this world.”
“I hope you have a nice birthday,” he heartened, waving goodbye as I left the store (for real this time).
Still slightly paranoid, I trudged briskly through the snow to the car, my legs gelatinous and trembling. My friend greeted me anxiously as she had, from afar, witnessed the skeevy behaviour of the Douche Wads.
“They were waiting for you,” she noted cautiously, as she began to reverse out of the parking lot.
“I know,” I said and then elaborated on what had happened in the liquor store.
On the way home, we stopped at McDonald’s for quarter pounders and a fry to share. We thought it a good idea; we dare not come back empty-handed and risk blowing our cover. Plus, we were starving; although, I will admit, the food was quite difficult to choke down given the circumstances. Even a good hour and a half later, my stomach was still coiled into tight, apprehensive knots. Shaken up as I was, I was considerably thankful for Silent Sam though, as I knew it would be the only thing that could possibly calm my nerves, which were, by then perfectly disconcerted.
I had always heard tales about men like the Douche Wads, men who stalk women, lecherous scavengers in pursuit of flesh. But until recently, it had never been something I had experienced in my own reality. This was the first time in my life that I had ever truly been afraid—ashamed even—to be a woman; for it finally became apparent just how easy it is for a woman to be hunted.
~
Here lie the creatures, motionless in a colloidal heap of their own innards. Gradually, they deteriorate, kaleidoscope eyes rolling back into glazed sockets, bioluminescence dissolving into the darkness.
Here lie the creatures.
Hunted.
Slaughtered.
Nothing.
Or so it seems, for one straggler remains. Having already indulged in its spoils, Ursa Major has long since gone; however, despite being well aware of this fact, the straggler continues to conceal herself. She hides behind clusters of aquatic plants and columns of moon rock, shivering violently. And she dares not emerge from her camouflage either. In fact, there is no saying how long she will choose to remain hidden.
For as long as it is Hunting Season, she is prey.
Image Source:
Effy Stonem running through forest gif. (n.d.). [image] Available at: https://a-part-of-elysoul.tumblr.com [Accessed 25 Jun. 2018].