• The Hunter


    Brooklyn, New York – Evening. A cold, unrelenting fog blankets the streets. On the front of one of the many gray buildings, a wooden sign hangs. The chipping paint barely visible, it reads “The Center for Orphaned and Destitute Children”. A tiny yard, ringed by a steel fence made of softly glinting coils of barbed wire, is scattered with children. There is no snow yet - the bitter blankness of winter has not yet overcome the cool, tired months of fall. The hard, gray surface of the blacktop seems to dim the yard, enhancing the aura of confinement. The bare limbs of sycamore trees jut into the yard, their skeletal branches clawing at the air with silent energy. The air is not graced with the laughter of children at play; the rules here are strict and well enforced. To smile or run at the wrong moment could cost a child much more than it is worth. Even as they play games and joke, the children seem subdued. Every once and a while one of them will turn around and glance at the building, fearful that their play will end or they will be caught in some criminal act. It is a harsh world, a cold world, a world that is no decent place to foster a child.

    This is where The Hunter lives. It is not where she was born, but it is where she began.

    She sits alone in a secluded part of the courtyard, an old stone bench resting under one of the sycamore trees. The small, pale girl wears the same worn uniform of the other children, the only difference being the thread she wears around her neck. A silver pendant hangs from it, casting an eerie glow on the surrounding area. Her dark hair falls into her face as she concentrates on the task before her. With careless precision the Hunter twirls a pencil between her fingertips, trying to keep it from falling. She continues to spin it as she brings her hands behind her back, separates them, and brings them together in front of her. She smiles for a moment, seeing it dance across her fingertips.

    Absorbed in her task, she does not notice the approaching figures until one of them knocks the pencil from her hands and it falls clattering to the floor. Looking up, her faint smile vanishes as she recognizes the children standing above her. Five boys stare down at her, smirking. She averts her eyes for a moment and reaches for her pencil, only to be stopped by one of the boys placing his foot over it carefully.

    “Hello, Sarah. Enjoying yourself?” he asks casually, rolling the pencil back and forth with his shoe. The girl glowers back at him with incredible intensity, as if to burn him with her stare. A couple of the surrounding boys flinch, but the leader meets her stare with cold blue eyes.

    “Give it back, Daniel,” the girl says in a soft, controlled voice. Her eyes bore into the boy, darkening with anger. It is a dangerous voice, one that speaks of dark secrets behind the flat emotion, the intense and unrivaled hatred of the very young. The boy takes no heed, smiling with certainty.

    “Why should I?” he asks, smirking down at her. “It’s not as if you haven’t got a million more of those stuffed up your sleeves. Why don’t you find something productive to do with your time? Like, get a life? Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find one eventually.” The other boys snicker and elbow each other. The girl stands up, silencing them.
    “I said, give it back,” she says, stepping forward. Daniel stares down at her. He is a good five inches taller than her, and she seems frail standing before him. He notices the pendant and inspects it curiously.

    “What’s that you’ve got there?” he asks, snatching at the chain. The Hunter pulls back, swatting his hand away. He withdraws, a new thought spreading across his face. “Oh, no, is this your special necklace? Did your filthy pig-spawn parents give this to you?” He grins widely, advancing slightly. “I bet right before they snuffed it they gave this to you. They said, ‘Bye now, we’re off to betray the empire! We’re going to try to overthrow the government, and if we don’t come back, this special amulet will protect you.’” Daniel snickers. “A lot of good that’s done you.”

    He steps forward and manages to grab the pendant. With one, quick pull he snaps the cord, pulling it from her neck. He only has a second to grin in triumph before she moves. In half a second, a pen is in her hand and flying towards his face. He reels backward as the sharpened tip cuts into his forehead, howling in pain. In another second, she’s crouched down, snatching up her pencil and springing after the boy. Daniel lets go of the pendant and she lunges for it, catching it seconds before it hits the ground.

    Dazed, Daniel gropes at his forehead. A trickle of blood seeps between his fingers. His cronies stagger backward, shocked at the force and speed of the attack. The Hunter rises, holding her pendant slightly behind her and grasping her pen tightly.
    “Leave me alone,” she says, tensing slightly. Daniel stares at her for a minute, his eyes widening.

    “Stupid traitor girl,” he sputters. She moves slightly, and he bolts away, his comrades right behind him. The Hunter turns away and hears them call back to her; “Freak! You’ll never amount to anything, you know that? You’ll never be anyone but those traitors’s brat. You’ll always be alone! Alone…”

    The Hunter sits down on the bench again, rubbing the blood off on her ragged shirt. She examines the damage done to the thread, and for a moment her eyes soften. A single tear beads in the corner of her eye, but she flicks it away before more can follow. Slowly she weaves the thread back together, knotting it tightly. Placing the pen carefully behind her ear, she resumes making the pencil dance across her fingertips.

    At some point the children are called inside. The courtyard is slowly draining of people, and after a couple of minutes she is alone. The Hunter still sits there, trying to keep her hands steady. Soon the others will come. The grown-ups will come and take her back to her cell-like room, perhaps after giving her a stern lecture or a beating. Certainly she will miss supper, and she will spend tonight as she spent many nights before – hungry, cold and alone. But this does not matter. Not now, when there is still this moment of peace, a time where she can be herself.


    Later, she will become one of the most feared and hated people in all the world she lives in. Not only that, she will become a symbol for everything her repressive government is against, a light to lead the way for the dozens of troubled survivors. She does not know this either, not yet. But someday, she will have her moment, her time to be someone to be recognized. And then, maybe then she can finally discover who she really is, who she can be. And for now, that is enough.