Muscle Memory — Emma Smith
We’re ducking behind a patch of tall grass. The cold air snaps at me like a rubber band.
My hands are shaking as I point my gun out towards the woods, in the corner of my eye I can see my dad. He’s done this so many times he doesn’t even have to think, he calls it “muscle memory”. It scares me just as much as it impresses me. The way he moves like a predator, with calculated precision and pupils so small they look like rips in his irises, like they aren’t meant to be there at all. The kind of out of place that this gun feels in my hands.
It’s heavy, and uncomfortable. Such a burden. I pretend it makes me feel powerful, because I know it makes him feel powerful. I don’t feel predatory, my palms are sweating and the handle is starting to feel like liquid I can’t grip. This feels so wrong, but maybe this is how it’s supposed to feel when you’re hunting. I know in the back of my head, this is always what i see when I look at a hunter. Behind all of the pride pasted on their face, a hunter is prey to their own weapon. I wonder if they know.
I pretend my gun has strings, I close my eyes and imagine something natural and gentle laying between my fingers. I tune out the metallic smell, and the clicking noise. That's much better. The harsh air begins to feel like longing kisses brushing quickly against my cheeks, my mind feels fuzzy. It makes me think of all the ways humans convince themselves the world loves them in order to cope with reality. Reality. Reality.
My eyes open at the word. Suddenly the strings are gone, and the air is bitter once again. A gun sits in my hands, weighing down my arms.
A sudden gentleness falls over the woods, I feel it before I see it. A deer walking about 20 feet from the patch. Its presence is so lively and innocent. My hands stop shaking, my gun stills as I’m stuck in a flow of admiration and awe. A sharp, hot whisper cuts through the cold and sears against my ear.
“There you go..told you it’d come naturally.” My dad says.
I realize he thinks my stillness is calculated. Predatory precision like his. I want to tell him I’m not a hunter, but I can’t seem to push any words out. I can feel my consciousness rising into third person. I’m an outside observer, I’ve lost any sense of control in my body. As my mind floats back down to the ground, I feel like a leaf falling from the tree I've always known. My eyes strain, and I find my consciousness lying inside the sweet deer. This deer, this creature, this familiar gentleness is my new tree. It’s like a cocoon.
Strings return, all around me. I watch myself from the deer’s eyes. The sharp air, and any bit of hate or pain is filtered out by my new fur I think I've always had. I see my gun, myself, and the sadistic stare of the hunter behind my dad’s gun, behind that patch of tall grass.
A shot is fired, I feel no pain as I collapse. Once my body hits the ground, a shift. And suddenly I’m behind the gun again. The body of the once powerful presence lies in the leaves. The air feels harsher than ever, pressure builds in every surface I can feel. I drop my weapon, it crunches as it falls. The fall of the gun is not like the fall of the deer. It's rushed and temporary. The deer is a permanent loss. Permanent. Reality.
I stand and make my way to the body lying with a peaceful hollowness. It feels like suffocation, too quiet, a lack of wind. Dark blood pools over its fur, which is no longer enough to filter the pain I feel.
“I’m so proud.” My dad says, the precision in his gaze has been put to rest. He walks and sits next to me, next to the deer. He pulls out a blade, and moves to begin cutting the fur away.
I finally choke words out, my consciousness has been sliced into one. Limited and shrunk into a single view I wish I could end.
“Stop, leave it alone.” I say.
He looks at me in confusion.
“I have to skin it. You don’t have to watch. It’s fine, it’s muscle memory.”
Muscle memory, my thoughts shiver at the phrase. The crimson tears of the wound are spreading to my hands, I’ve never felt more like a hunter. I've never felt more like prey. I lay my lonesome conscious next to the deer’s previous gentleness. I close my eyes, and do the only thing I know how.
I pretend my fingers are playing strings, I tune out all of the harshness. I imagine I’m covered in fur to filter out reality. Reality. Fur. Gentleness. Strings. This is muscle memory.
Emma Smith is a 14 year old aspiring writer from Norman, Oklahoma. She spends her time experimenting with different outlets of personal expression. As a self taught guitarist and pianist, she enjoys writing music and singing. Even at her young age, her mind wanders far, and she is ready to take the next steps to share her art with others while simultaneously staying true to herself.