I mean, if you come out here to hunt a bear, you should aim to kill. The shot in the stomach meant it had time to get away. Obviously, it died a slow and painful death. As my eyes take in the size of the creature—at least six hundred pounds or so—I’m also checking out its brown fur. I could do with a new bearskin. Mine’s getting a bit old and worn. If I take him back to my cabin, I can skin him and prepare the fur for a new bearskin. At least that way, his death would not have been total fucking waste of time. With my mind made up, I roll the bear onto its side. Then I crouch down and haul him on my back. With one loud grunt, I throw him over my left shoulder. I can feel my chest muscles bulge and my back muscles contract. The six-pack I’ve acquired from all the wood I chop comes in handy. Those muscles contract at the same time and make sure I stay fucking upright instead of collapsing flat on my face into the snow with the bear on top of me. This is better than any exercise a gym can offer. Lifting and carrying over five hundred pounds beats the monotony of squats, bar lifts, and all the other shit the blokes do to impress the chicks. The way back is a little slower with the weight of my friend, but only a little. As I carry the lifeless body of this powerful yet innocent creature, I can’t help by empathize. I, too, am hunted. Not by poachers, but other forces—powerful, evil forces. So far, I’ve not been caught. But who knows? One day I might be the bear. A shiver runs down my spine. I push the morbid thought aside. When I get back to the cabin, I’m drenched in sweat. I’m so wet I decide to leave the bear in the snow out the back of my hut. The freezing weather will keep it preserved until I’m ready to cut the skin off. It takes time and skill to de-skin a bear, and right now, I’m not in the right frame of mind. Tomorrow is another day. Inside my four walls, I strip down to nothing and walk over to the fireplace. My wet clothes are in one hand. As I pass the mirror in the hallway, I pause. Muscles of steel, hairy chest, and a wild beard stare back at me. I’ve shed any unnecessary pounds and look taut and terrific.
It’s been a while since I’ve looked at myself in the mirror, and I’m surprised by the wildness about me. If I just glance at myself, I’m reminded of the bear lying outside my cabin. The logs in the fireplace are still crackling, and I add more wood to it. Once my clothes are laid out, I stand against the flames to dry my hairy chest and back. The warmth feels good against my naked skin. For a few minutes, I stand in the room, listening to the fire speak. The wood tells of tales long gone, and I think back to the bear—such a mighty powerful beast and yet so helpless against a gun. With a sigh, I make my way downstairs to my secret undercover bunker. It’s that time of the day where I undertake my surveillance. Along the way, I grab some pants and a drink. Once I’m down there, I tend to sit and contemplate, sometimes for hours. It’s the time of day where I make sure nothing happens or has happened to my Emma. Emma. Her name rolls of my tongue like chocolate. She’s as delicious as chocolate, I imagine. I can only imagine because I never fucked her in my old life. I sigh and sit down. The monitors show nothing, other than her empty apartment. No doubt she’s gone out with her socialite friends to party and drink in some club. She might not get home till late hours, and I won’t get to see her. Of course, it doesn’t fucking matter if I get to see her or not. I mean, I’m not watching her to perv on her. Actually, I’m not even watching her—I’m keeping an eye on her to make sure nothing bad happens to her. I vowed to keep her safe. I vowed to protect her. The only way I know to protect her is to keep her under 24/7 surveillance. Of course, there’s only enough that I can actually monitor. I can’t monitor where she goes, who she drinks with, or with whom she goes home. I can only look at her apartment. Better than nothing, I tell myself and then take a sip of my tea. My eyes are glued to the monitors. Still nothing.