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> you draw the bow back to your chin, looking down the arrow shaft to your target
> you focus on the bullseye, imagining the arrow striking the target in your mind
> the taught bow string digs deep into your sore fingers, the muscles in your back protesting against the force of the bow
> you picture the arrow flying over and over in your head, willing it to the center
> the string suddenly slips from your fingers, sending the arrow sailing over the target and out of view
> you yelp in pain as the string slaps against your arm, striking the bruises from similar incidents
> with a frustrated yell you throw the bow to the ground
> you’ve been at this for days now, and still no progress
> you slump down onto the grass and begin nursing your red, swollen arm
> eventually your hear familiar footsteps behind you
> you know who it is without turning around
> “What’s wrong, son?” asks deep, warm voice
“I hate archery dad,” you sigh, “I can’t ever hit the target and I just keep hurting myself…”
> your father crouches down beside you, placing his hand on your shoulder
> “I know it’s hard, but keep at it, you’ll get better eventually”
“But why?” you protest, “Why do I have to learn how to shoot a bow?”
>“you did say you wanted to go hunting with me next year.”
“I could just use a gun. You don’t have to learn how to shoot a gun.”
> Your father shakes his head
> “That’s exactly the point, guns make it too easy. They do the work for you, but you need to do this yourself”
“Why?”
>“If you let something or someone do your work for you, you will grow to depend on it. You need to rely on and have confidence in your own abilities and strengths.”
> “If you don’t, you’ll be limited by who and what are around you. You’ll be a prisoner of the wills of others, and your future will be out of your hands.”
> “But if you can rely on yourself, you’ll never be helpless no matter where you are, and you’ll be free to shape your own destiny.”
> Your father turns you toward him, his expression serious but kind
> “Listen to me anon, that is the most precious thing you have. Never let anyone take away your freedom to choose your own fate. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I think I understand.”
>“good,” your father plants a small kiss on your forehead before rising to his feet, “Dinner will be ready in about an hour, do you want to come inside?”
“No,” you reply, picking your bow back up from the ground, “I’ll stay out here for a while.”
> heel to toe, heel to toe, heel to toe
> you move at a crouch, placing each step carefully to avoid any twigs or leaves in your path
> the slight sounds of your movement are masked by the chorus of birds, insects, and animals in the trees
> the air is pure, filled with the scent of pine and recent rain
> your jacket is damp form the new morning dew, the sun just breaking free from the horizon
> you keep your attention focused on your steps, any snap or rustle would instantly give you away
> heel to toe, heel to toe, heel to toe
> you come across a small clearing in the woods
> the rays of sunlight are just beginning to clear the treetops, illuminating the site in golden rays and dispelling the thin morning fog.
> in the center is a whitetail deer, a doe to be precise
> her head I bent down, sleepily eating small tufts of thick, green grass
> you’ve been following her for hours, and now she’s finally within your grasp
> you carefully creep around to her side to get a better shot
> you slowly reach over your shoulder to your quiver, grabbing one of your broadhead arrows
> you mentally run through all the things your father taught you
> one finger above the arrow, two below
> aim up, then draw
> loose grip on the bow
> pull back to the anchor point
> thumb tucked under the cheekbone
> smooth release
> satisfied you remember everything, you nock the arrow to the string and bring the bow to full draw
> you wince as the arrow slides across the bow, making a small slithering sound
> The doe’s head shoots up, instantly on alert
> you hold your breath as her ears swivel around, sensitive to the slightest noise
> the muscles in your back begin to tighten from the strain of the bow, begging for release
> you force down to urge to fire. if you shoot now, she’ll run out of the way as soon as you loose
> her eyes scan the trees around her, stopping momentarily on your position
> you fear you have been spotted, but her gaze moves on
> satisfied that there is no danger, the doe warily lowers her head, resuming eating.
> you wait a few moments to be sure of your aim
> you fire, the bow making a soft *twang* as the arrow flies forth
> before it even impacts, you know the shot was perfect
> the arrow strikes the center of her heart
> she tries to bolt, only making it to the end of her first bound before her legs give out and she tumbles to the ground
> you emerge from the foliage, pride swelling in your chest.
> You did it! Your first kill!
> you enter the clearing and crouch down next to the deer
> as you inspect the animal, you feel something inside you haven’t felt before
> you realize that this is the first thing you’ve done completely yourself
> you succeeded because of your own ability and determination
> you have the power to shape your own fate, you can determine your own future
> the thought solidifies into a feeling of pure confidence and joy, filling your body with strength
> is this what your dad was talking about? Is this the freedom that he spoke of?
> you hold the feeling tight in your heart, determined to never let it go
> your destiny is in your own hands, and you promise to never let anyone take that from you
> your vision slowly returns as the memory fades away
> your thoughts come back under your control as Twilight’s presence recedes from your mind
> the aura around her horn dissipates as she opens hers eyes
> you glare at her, trying to convey all of your hate through your gaze
> She forced herself into the most private part of a person, rifling through your memories like a photo album
> that was your most precious memory, the day you seized control of your life
> she had no right to see it
> she returns your glare with a look of disgust, before rising and ascending the stairs
> she stops at the top and turns toward you
> “You’re revolting”
> her words are lined with venom and malice, there is no sympathy
> the door shuts behind her, again plunging you into darkness