Equilibrium

“You start with a knife, kid.” The task is always insurmountable. A spasming beast. There's no time to wince or to waste. That trapped body heat can rot the meat; the life left in that carcass will drag the body down with it if you don't set it free.

The first cut runs from the pelvis to the sternum. “Don't cut through the guts.” A cloud of boiling intestines bursts out, a red wave on pink snow. You've started now, you can't back out. You signed up for this the instant you shot that bullet.

“Pass me the bone saw—I’ll do this part for you.” You stand aside and watch as he tears through its sternum, bone crunching with each movement of the saw. “Some hunters insist on keeping the torso intact, makes it easier to mount its head later. I think that vanity’s bullshit. Why risk spoiling the meat for that, sawing through the ribcage makes it easier to see where to cut. Helps the heat escape faster, too.” Blood spills from the mangled diaphragm. He gets up, wiping off shards of bone and stray fur from his hands.

You feel his gaze over your shoulder as he stands behind you, watching your hands dig into its warm flesh, cutting away the organs and rolling them away from the meat, a multicolored mass slowly sinking into the melting snow. The liver is a purplish blue, lightened by the sheer white lining still covering it. The intestines are a dull gray-green, the stomach and rectum a muted powder yellow. The bloodied chunks of lung pooling in the cavity are a bright, violent red, while the muscles boast a deeper shade, almost purple. Its eyes are a light-streaked brown, the color of tree bark. You reach up towards the neck and sever its windpipe, your blade crunching against cartilage.

You wedge a stick into the cavity, propping it open for him to observe your work. “Not bad for a first field-dressing. You’re more meticulous than I was at your age.” He returns to the truck to grab a jug of water. Rinsing is all that’s left now. The blood on your hands is drying, falling off in flakes. Your hands are starting to get cold now, no longer warmed by body heat. You clean yourself off in the snow. Soon, you’ll have to help him load its dead weight in the truck bed.

There are times where you'll have to do this alone. It'll be you, adrenaline, and the sun setting behind you. There's no time to feel sorry for yourself. There's no time to feel sorry for it. Learn to cut through flesh with urgency and precision. Learn to stop flinching when the steam fogs up your glasses. Learn to accept coming home empty handed. Learn how to improvise in situations you weren’t prepared for. Learn to apologize when you make a mistake. Learn to say thank you, to grapple with the guilt of holding the smoking gun.