deerly beloved

their anger is a drumbeat, thumping right alongside their heart, and it propels them through the woods, itching for something to kill, to maim, something they can take their frustrations out on. it’s only the scent of a white-tailed deer that keeps the thoughts from their head, keeps them from reliving that terrible conversation over and over. and they can’t let themselves relive it, because they’re not sure what they’ll do if they give themselves the time to think it all over. probably scream. movement catches their eye, and Spider whorls, lips pulling back in a snarl. for once, they’re not hunting for the pack - they’re hunting for sport.

"Speech"