The Bowman

July 6, 2017 by Patrick Starks


The bowman was hungry, he hadn’t eaten for days—at least not since he last had dinner with his family. The days had gotten a lot colder, harsh, and the bowman hadn’t a clue to when he would return—when it was okay to.

He thought of the warm bed he lied on the night before, how much he missed the sensual touch of his wife. She was his pride and joy. Her skin soft enough to slice through it like butter, while her scent lingered, stuck to the bowman, and the pillow he rested upon. The bowman however felt disgusting, it been quite some time sense he had the proper bath or shower. He gazed at the moon, the reflection of it sparkled with his honey brown eyes. His wife adored his eyes, she’d even find herself getting lost in them once and a while. As he continued to admire what beauty soared the skies, he dreamed. So beautiful the night is, the bowman said. He thought of how much his wife would adore such a sight—how her hair would drift in the cool nights breeze. However, he figured to carry on, to set camp, and finally get some shut eye, but before doing so, felt it best he catered to his belly first.

What roasted in the fire was the smell of a fine cook. The bowman had only a few spices, but did what he could with what he had. His bow was now dirty and arrows bloody to. Most bowman threw away their arrows after a kill, but not him. He’d never waste an arrow, and would give one a piece of his mind if he ever witnessed them do so. Other than the arrows, his hands were unkept, and red as the meat he cooked. The bowman was known to be messy when it came to skinning, and gutting his prey—although his wife was to be quite the pro—even their kids had perfected the art.

As the bowman sat and chowed down on the carcasses he cooked, he gazed at the fire. The fire was bright, malevolent, and massive. He was impressed—proud of himself for being able to create such godly creation. Although the fire became larger, unpredictable. The bowman then yelled in agony as the fire had now scorched the side of his face. The burn was horrific. His skin began to peel, parts of his teeth and gums began to reveal themselves.  Over time the burning wore off, but the bowman went unconscious during the cooldown—he’d never felt such pain.

Wolves howled and the buzzard hovered, as they waited for what they had discovered.

Later the bowman awakened. He looked dead, however still felt the same, alive that is. He grabbed his bow and attempted to pull himself up, and as he walked, wobbled a bit. He had forgotten who he was, or who he knew—he felt alone. On the ground, all he saw was the sand and the backs of hands. Drops of liquid then fell instantaneously, turning partially to mud. The bowman took his right hand picking up the small piece of wet sand he now created. He took the tip of his tongue to give it a taste, for he had forgotten what taste was.

During the tasting, he had a vision of his wife, bringing back memory of the sensations he felt for her—with her. By doing so, he developed a taste again, but not sexually, this was hunger. The bowman shook his head, tried to forget any or all thought of what his body was insisting he do. Later he even thought of the children, being ashamed of himself.

What the hell is wrong with me? What happen to me? The bowman questioned. He walked over to a nearby lake to splash away his urges, however got the opposite in return. In the lake, the bowman saw his reflection for the first time, since the fire it seemed. He was hideous, he thought. He poked his tongue through the very hole in which the skin had peeled. As he examined, he thought back to the night of the fire—what it did and why.

A woman then appeared. She was beautiful, her skin was chocolaty, her lips juicy, and curves sculpted to perfection—most could not resist such a sight and neither could he. Before the bowman could give any recognition, the woman was already in front of him (noes touching his). She said nothing, she just stared at him seductively. The bowman began to feel the tingling of when his wife looked at him that same way, however remained the desire to eat. You are mine, the woman said. The bowman smiled, thought she was crazy, figured there had to be some flaw that lied behind such beauty. I’m married, I have kids, he said. The woman spoke again and did not change the subject. You are mine.

That was the second time she claimed the bowman, even when he told her of his relationship status. The bowman persisted to follow up with her answer once again, but was groped during the sentence—hand full of balls one would think. The man felt aroused and violated at the same time. The woman kissed him, he developed another taste. The taste was sweet, with a hint of menthol—it was obvious that the woman smoked. He pulled away from her, he was never fond of the habit, her habit.

What the hell? Lady I told you I am married, you can’t just do that. The bowman pleaded for understanding, but the woman replied as she’d always do. You are mine. The bowman grew tired of all the antics. He turned tail, walked the other direction—even thought of running. He felt the woman had gone mad.

As he faded, the woman screamed. The bowman wanted to continue to move forward but felt it wrong if he were to do so. He slowed down, he stopped. He was unsure of what she was to do next, but had already had so many things go wrong recently, he figured it couldn’t get any worse. The woman lied face down, ass up—some would say. The bowman was hesitant as he’d always been. From a far she looked beaten, but the bowman figured that be impossible, at least in such a fleeting time. He placed his hand on her shoulder and pulled her over—she rolled over as any unconscious body would. It can’t be, the bowman said. It was his wife, he looked harder to verify, he could see that this was reality. But she was not the same, she was different, she was pale.

From here the bowman discovers who he became, who he was, his reality. From here the hunt began.














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