I am a hunter
I am an apex predator. I am a natural hunter. None shall survive my realm, especially those entering unbidden.
1:30am. The worst noise one can hear: the buzz of the devil themselves. Mosquito. Right by the ear.
I look at Sofia, barely visible in the darkness, and we agree: “lights”.
We flick them on, barely illuminating the room with the side lamps of the bed, eyes immediately burning. I’m tired, I’m sick, but above all, I’m a killer.
We wait. These fools always come back for more, and the sickness sweats are starting to smell good, even to me.
It surfaces above Sofia, yet drifts away to the far corner of the room. I don’t attempt a strike, these devils require precision, and if you miss, they learn and adapt, foolish as they are. We wait.
I switch another light on, this time towards its latest destination. Mosquitoes are predictable, they are also cowards and will hide when they sense danger. Curtains are their preferred refuge, so I knew where it was.
I am up, out of bed, stretching my hunter’s limbs in preparation, eyes keenly adjusted, and I find my weapon of choice: a light, breathable t-shirt. The kind that reduces wind resistance for the impending strike, gliding through the air to claim life straight from the breeze. We’ve done this dance before, shirt and I.
I tap the curtains, rustling this menace’s feathers, knowing it’s scared. It should be.
Minutes pass before Sofia spots it: “there!”, pointing to the corner of our room. No opportunity: yet. We’re closing in, and I know it juggles its needs in its puny mind. Food or safety. A balancing of risk stretching back eons. We all are operating under such constraints. Some, however, operate at the top of this hierarchy.
I stalk, I crouch, I observe different angles. I know it is near the window with the curtains, they always are, predictable swines. Minutes pass. I grow cold, naked in my hunter’s garb, yet the hunt is more often than not a game of outlast. One must endure to claim the prize.
A movement. One of life’s pixels obscuring against the grain of the curtain. I know the beige colour of my prey and this was no mote of dust. I adjust my position, pivoting around the observation point. A breath, light, so not to disturb the volume in the room.
There. You are mine. Arm cocked back, the fool moving left to right across my path, and my weapon comes forward and down with a snap, movement practiced thousands of times. A rapid probability calculation in my mind places this with a very high likelihood of hit. I inform Sofia.
This weapon: light, breathable; will send the devil into any surface in its path of attack. Conveniently a wall lies one-and-half meters ahead. Always confirm your kill.
I scan the floor next to the skirting, and see the puny, foolish, monster writhing on its back. My friend, you are now mine. One strike is all you need, it should never take more than one, lest they learn and evade you.
A hunter is merciful. I put the prey out of its misery and thank it for the hunt. It is our collaboration, the risks we take together, the dance we share. It is over.
It is now time to sleep again, yet my mind races, sleep evading me more than before. A hunter will relish their prize, their process, reliving it over and over, and in this case, the devil has won. Sleep does not come.
However, a hunter does not do it for personal pride. Sleep does come for one of us, so success is found, bittersweet the taste.
Until we meet again, devil, until we meet again.