And I’m like, don’t you get it dad? Why don’t you get it? This thing you’ve given me, that you put in my hands, this thing is death. If I pointed it at you, you wouldn’t think it was all that cool anymore. Not that I want to point the gun at dad. I don’t want to point it at anything. I want to be inside, in bed, asleep, or if I have to be awake, I’d rather be playing PlayStation. Dad hates PlayStation. He hates all video games, and I’m like, why? Games are awesome, they’re art, even though I know you think you don’t care about art. But I never say that because dad doesn’t like to argue. Or he doesn’t like to argue with me. Or, really, he doesn’t like for me to argue with him.

He’s a good guy. A good man, I guess. He’s not bad. He definitely loves me. He’s not one of those dads who’s afraid to say so either. Sometimes he says it in front of my friends and that’s embarrassing, but I always say it back because if I didn’t it would hurt his feelings so bad. He just wishes I was different I think. He wants me to be happy though. I think he just wishes I could be happy being different.

I don’t like to hunt. I don’t like doing a lot of things outside. I hate being cold, but I don’t like being hot either. I’m afraid of snakes and bears and, I’ll be honest, I think if a deer got too close to me, I’d be scared of it too. But hunting isn’t the only outside thing I don’t like doing. There’s lots.

Like fishing. I’m not scared of worms, not exactly, but since I was little, dad has had to put the worm on my hook whenever he makes me go fishing because I don’t want to touch it. It’s not that it’s gross, well, it’s not just that it’s gross. It’s kind of mean too. I’m just supposed to push this hook all the way through this little guy’s body? Life for him was fine before we plucked him from the dirt, and now I’m supposed to throw him out into the water where he can’t breathe so he can be eaten by a fish so I can pull that fish onto land where it can’t breathe either. This is supposed to be relaxing, but I’m like, where’s your empathy, or whatever?

And is it really so weird that I don’t want to wake up before the sun rises and go marching through the woods dressed in bulky camo that makes me sweaty even though it’s so cold out? And I don’t want to kill a deer. I know I said I’d probably be scared of one if it got too close because, well, it could trample me or something, but that doesn’t mean I think it deserves to die. If I’m in my room and the deer is in the woods, then we don’t have to worry about each other and that’s all good with me.

But dad loves being outside. In the woods. By the river. On the back porch. It doesn’t matter. He’s just happier in what he calls fresh air. Although I don’t think there’s any such thing as fresh air anymore since global warming is a thing and all. He never asked if I want to go out with him either. It was just something we started doing. One night he said, get ready, I’m taking you hunting in the morning. I was like, please dad, I’d rather sleep in, me and the guys are supposed to play Fortnite tomorrow, a new season is about to start. But I couldn’t say that. He’d bought me my own rifle. It was a surprise.

I was like, you really want me to use this, why? But I just said thank you. I could tell he wanted a bigger reaction. He made me put it up in the cabinet right next to the others and the way he was watching me made it feel like some kind of ceremony, but I didn’t feel anything except tired because I knew I had to be up so early. Now every Saturday and Sunday morning he comes in my room and shakes me awake and says it’s time. We get in the truck and go tiptoe through the dead leaves until we find our prey.

Dad’s tried to teach me to shoot. He’s always saying, steady, hold it up, take a breath, aim, you have to aim. When I miss he says, that’s okay that’s okay, next time, but I’m always like, thank God. I never miss on purpose though. I’m just a bad shot.

Most days we don’t even see a deer. If we do its dad who kills it. Then sometimes he shows me how to skin them and take out all their guts. Watching sucks, but what I hate even more is when he makes me help, and I have to get in there and pull out the intestines and stuff.

What I hate more than all that gross stuff, is when he makes me stand next to him at the grill. When the meat starts sizzling I’m like, would we all smell that good if we were sprinkled with salt and pepper and set on fire? But I just keep quiet and try to breathe through my mouth. Then we have to eat them. That really sucks. I’m always like, I just saw this thing out in the woods sniffing the ground and I saw its head pop up when it sensed there was a predator nearby even though it couldn’t see where, and the predator was us and then I saw it fall over, it just fell over, and now it’s on my plate, or a piece of it is on my plate because we had to chop it up, and I’m supposed to eat it and say, wow, this tastes so good?

I’m not sure what’s worse, dinner or dad’s trophies. They’re always staring down at us and I know they’re dead, but one day, when I was home by myself, I went to the fridge to get a soda and when I walked back through the den, I saw it looking at me and I looked at it and I said, I’m sorry. That made me feel stupid because I know it couldn’t hear me. Even if it was alive it wouldn’t have understood me. Deer don’t speak English. They don’t speak human. But I said it.

And this morning, we’re walking through the woods, it’s the beginning of the season, and dad does what he always does and takes a deep breath and says, today’s the day, I can feel it. I hope it’s one of those days we come back with nothing, but maybe he’s right and we’re finally going to put another head on our wall. He’s been saving a spot for the head of my first buck I kill. It will go in the empty space between his own trophies. Dad says my first buck will be immortalized that way. I’m like, that makes no sense. But I don’t tell him that.

It’s not like dad hasn’t tried to like video games. There’s just a lot he needs to learn. Like how, even though I have a PlayStation he always calls it a Nintendo, but he might think he’s being funny. If I ask him to, he’ll sit down and play with me. I haven’t asked in a long time though. He’s not very good. He has trouble using both the sticks to move and look around at the same time. I guess it’s because he’s old. We’ve tried playing Call of Duty and Fortnite and I’ll say, this is kind of like hunting, right? Even though it isn’t. I know that. But they all have guns and I hope that will make him like games just enough to let me play more and stop dragging me into the woods where I have to try and kill something for real.

Dad loves guns. He has the bumper stickers to prove it and he gets really worked up whenever he thinks people are trying to take them away. He is really responsible though. He always keeps them locked up and makes sure the key is too high for my baby sister to reach. But, sometimes, when he’s talking about how great guns are and how they’re a symbol of freedom, I’m like, don’t you know that three times a year since I was in elementary school, I’ve had to hide under my desk with all my classmates and pretend there’s someone out in the hall who wants to shoot us for no reason at all?

I don’t talk about it though. It’s not worth it.

I never ask him what time it is either. Not when we’re hunting. I can’t check my phone because dad doesn’t let me bring it. If I ask, he’ll think I’m complaining and he’ll be frustrated for the rest of the day. Since the sun’s up now, I guess we’ve been out here for a while, but we still haven’t seen anything. I’m hoping I’ll get lucky and we’ll just go home without having to pull the trigger. Although, that sucks in a different way. I know I said I don’t want to shoot anything, but I still feel a little guilty every time I miss because dad gets so disappointed. Not that he’s disappointed in me. It’s more like he’s disappointed for me. So, I have to pretend like I’m disappointed too and kind of act sad for a while.

I’m already thinking about how to slump my shoulders and hang my head so at the end of the day I can show dad I’m as upset as he is that we’re going home without anything. And I’m thinking about texting the guys as soon as we get home to let them know I’m about to log on, but then dad shushes me even though I’m not talking. He points somewhere up the hill in front of us and I follow his finger with my eyes, but I don’t see it right away. He keeps jabbing his finger in the air like that’s going to help, but it just makes it harder to follow. Eventually Dad palms the top of my head and turns it so I can see the buck sticking its body halfway out from behind a tree. Then he pats me on the back like, go for it.

Okay.

I brace the butt of my rifle against my shoulder and look down the scope. I’ve missed shots way clearer than this one, so even though I’ve lined up the crosshairs exactly where I think they should be, I’m pretty confident the bullet will magically go somewhere else like it always does.

Dad whispers, easy, take your time. That only makes me more nervous. For some reason, the more advice he gives me, the harder it is to follow. Relax, he says. That makes me tense up.

I know we’re only out here because dad wants to spend more time together and that’s cool. A lot of dads probably don’t want to spend time with their kids, but maybe there’s something else we can do. We definitely can’t go fishing. Last time we tried that we got in a big fight. Maybe sports. Dad loves football. Even though it’s kind of boring. It’s just a bunch of really huge guys running into each other over and over, but maybe we could watch a different sport together. Although, to be honest, I don’t really like any of them all that much. And playing them is worse than watching them. I hate getting sweaty, and when I run, I get out of breath really fast. So, yeah, sports suck, especially football, but they would be better than this.

Anyway, I pull the trigger.

The deer makes this weird sound that’s not all the way a scream, and runs out of sight before the echo of the gun fades away. Dad slaps me on the back again, this time pretty hard because he’s so happy.

He kind of whisper shouts, you did it!

I’m like, not really. But I say, thanks dad, what now?

I really, really hope he’s going to say it’s time to give up, there’s no way we’ll find that deer, but he says, we have to go look for it so we can put it out of its misery.

I’m like, that deer is only in its misery because of me, but I just say, okay.

I’m pretty miserable too to be honest. I mean, I know I don’t feel anywhere near as bad as the deer, but this lump in my chest is still pretty awful. It doesn’t get better when I see the blood on the ground either. I think this lump is heavy enough to make me sit down right here.

Dad just stands there with this big grin and says we’re supposed to wait about thirty minutes before we go looking for the deer because if we start chasing it right away it might get more scared and run even further.

I’m like, it just got shot, how could it be more scared? But I just nod.

We stand there for a long time without really talking. Every now and then dad will say good job or something, but all I do is quietly wish we were going home. I can’t say that though. Last time I told dad I wanted to go home early was on that fishing trip.

Finally, dad says, come on. We follow the dark red trail, and the whole time, dad has still got that big grin because he’s so happy I finally hit something. I have to walk ahead of him because I don’t want him to see my face. I’m walking so fast that he starts think I’m actually excited. I know if I turn around, he’ll be smiling even bigger, so I don’t turn around because I don’t want to see that and I don’t want him to see what my face really looks like. I just keep my head down and follow the spots of blood. Dad laughs and tells me to slow down, the deer isn’t going anywhere.

Maybe I’ve been showing him the wrong games. Maybe he just needs one with easier controls. Or maybe he’d get what I like about them if I let him play one with a bigger focus on story. Because it’s not always about running around trying to beat the other team. Some games are more than just fun. They can be beautiful and sad. If he still has trouble figuring out the joysticks, he can watch me play. That wouldn’t be so different than watching a movie. A lot of people like watching other people play games. Dad might be more into it than he thinks.

The deer got pretty far, which is impressive, because if someone shot me, I don’t think I’d run anywhere. I’d probably just lie down and scream for while whoever had the gun finishes me off. This deer must want to stay alive really bad, but it’s suffering, so finding it and shooting it again is the responsible thing to do. And I’m like, maybe the responsible thing to do was take a picture of it and hang that on the wall instead of shooting it then cutting off its head. Then I’m like, not everyone who gets shot dies, is there really no chance this dear could survive and get better if we just left it alone? But I keep quiet and keep following the blood.

Dad really is a cool guy. For a dad. Or at least he can be. Sometimes, even though he doesn’t like games, he’ll surprise me and buy me one if it’s one he’s heard me talking about for a long time. I guess I just wouldn’t call him sensitive.

Like when my grandpa died. I was little and it was the first funeral I’d ever been to. It was an open casket and we had to sit in the front row where we could see him up close. People who’d known grandpa kept standing up and telling stories about him. The whole-time dad did a really great job of keeping his mouth in a straight line. I could barely listen to anything they said. I just kept staring at grandpa lying there with his arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t look relaxed. He didn’t look peaceful. He just looked like he wasn’t going to wake up.

I don’t know why, but I started sniffling. Dad leaned over and shushed me really quietly, but I just shook my head and tried to run away. He caught me by the arm before I could go anywhere and he kept asking what’s wrong, what’s wrong? But I just wanted to leave. I started bawling and tried to pull away from him. I wouldn’t hold still which meant dad had to tighten his grip. He got mad, which made me cry more and try harder to pull away, which only made him madder and forced him to squeeze my arm even harder. He told me be quiet, everyone is looking at us, I needed to act my age. He was mad at me for the rest of the day.

Well, that lump in my chest, the one that showed up right after I shot the deer, it reminded me a lot of how I felt at my grandpa’s funeral and right now it’s moving up into my throat and I can’t swallow it back down. I’m a lot older than when grandpa died, but there’s still only one way I’m going to get this lump out of me and I don’t want dad to be around when it happens.

Maybe it’s not such a bad thing that dad isn’t very sensitive. Maybe I should be less sensitive. Then I might not feel so bad about this deer and I could turn around and walk beside dad instead of hiding my face. We could talk and even laugh about the weird sound the deer made when the bullet broke through its skin and tore through its insides and how it’s probably still stuck somewhere in its body, hot and burning. I wouldn’t mind getting all the blood on my hands when we skinned it and the squashy feeling of the guts wouldn’t make me want to gag. I’d be able to stand beside him at the grill and learn how to get that nice, smoky flavor. Tomorrow we could go fishing. And it wouldn’t be so hard to do what I have to do next.

We find the deer. It’s just lying there with its legs bent under its body. I see it see us, but it doesn’t try to get up to run. Its tongue is stuck out and it’s making heavy sounds like, hunh hunh hunh, as clouds of air shoot from its nostrils. I see the bullet hole I made. Each time the deer takes a breath a little more blood leaks out. It definitely isn’t going to survive and get better.

I do my best to make my face look normal and ask dad if he’ll do it.

He says, no way, this is yours. Then he laughs and says don’t worry, there’s no way you can miss now.

I take the gun off my shoulder and point. Dad’s right. As bad of a shot as I am, I barely have to aim. I pull the trigger again. There’s the echo. Then no more clouds of air.

I help dad wrap the body up in our tarp and together, we drag it out of the woods. We lift it into the truck bed. Even with both of us lifting, it’s really heavy and I’m like, if such a big part of the dear is missing, then why is it still so heavy?

Then we get in, buckle up and drive home. Dad keeps saying eight points, wow, eight points. He won’t stop telling me how proud he is.

But I’m like, dad please be quiet, it’s hard to talk because of this lump in my throat, and you made me get up so early, I’d rather go to sleep than hear you repeat yourself. I’m like, I don’t want to do this again, it sucks, it’s always too cold and somehow I still get too hot, and most of the time we don’t even find anything and when we do I hate it all even more. I’m like, why do you like this, what is so fun about it all, do you not see what’s in the back of the truck, don’t you know what we’re going to do to it when we get home? And I’m like, really, we need to hurry up and get this over with, this isn’t fun for me, I don’t like guns as much as you, not even close, I really just want to go to my room and lock the door and game with the guys. But I just say thanks dad, I’m proud of me too.

 

Neil Allen is a writer and a flight attendant living in Chicago.