It enveloped him like Saran Wrap. He wanted to rip it off his body, and if it dared to wiggle or budge, threatening to return, he’d shoot it dead. The concept of love within itself wasn’t the problem. It was the lack of control. There was little to no self-regulation when in love. It became a sought-after drug. He couldn’t have that. The heart made illogical choices while the mind protested and knew better. It was like a constant yearning, a persistent tug of war, a relentless state of intoxication.
Shoving the notion out of his mind, he got to his feet with a groan. Bundled up in thick layers of clothing, covering his hands with two sets of gloves, he grabbed his favorite hunting knife and rifle, and headed out into the drifting snow. It was coming down at an angle now, striking him with a fine mist and showing no signs of letting up.
He blinked several times, almost blinded by the whipping wind. Normally, he would’ve worn his ski goggles, but he made do. Walking towards the forest surrounding his property, he kept a good pace. He marched about twenty more yards when he reached the forest, then approached one of his many traps. Inside, covered in snow and frozen to death, was a muskrat. He checked another and discovered a river otter. It had met the same fate. Two other traps were empty, but the third had a beaver in it. The animal had made a mess trying to escape. He had plenty more to check out but figured collecting these for now would be just fine. Tomorrow morning he’d return with fresh bait and clear the others. Perhaps he’d gotten a few red squirrels.
Placing his gear down, he carefully opened the iron snares and removed the remains of each animal he’d discovered, placing the bloodied carcasses into a large linen bag, and headed back towards his house, moving a bit faster than before. As he approached his modern cabin, he saw the chimney smoking and the windows aglow with flickering light. It looked like a happy place. A place where the sound of laughter rent the air as good stories of yesteryear were told, and generous hot meals were served on elegant silver and ivory trays, accompanied by cold beers and warm wines. He would’ve bought into appearances too, thinking it was a source of joy, had he not known the truth.
He lived alone in the big home. Despite the high-quality décor and impressive structure, he didn’t figure himself either happy or unhappy inside those walls. Just that strange gray area in between.
Shaking the snow off his body, and stomping his boots clean, he grabbed the knob and entered. The wooden floor creaked beneath his heavy gait as he dragged the loot towards the back of the dwelling, the carcasses bumping along his shoulder with each step.
He reached the washroom and groaned. It was time to get to work. In the big basin, he made haste cleaning up the stiff fur and humming to the song on the radio: Wonderwall by Oasis. I’ll give these small ones to Rickers, get my pay, go grocery shopping, then head on over to Gus’s, I suppose. Maybe I’ll go ice fishing over the weekend. It’s been a while. Just as he was brainstorming what to do in the week ahead, he heard the crackle of the 5-0 radio lying on the counter, the screen afire in that eerie alien-like, greenish-yellow glow.
He had several transistors lying about—some for work, and others to keep tabs on the comings and goings of the local police department. He could hear the officers talking to one another while patrolling and what not. He listened as he placed old, heated towels over the vermin, then cleaned the basin of speckled blood. Officer Hitchcock was making rounds. Suspicious men in the back of a school. Probably drug deals. Typical mess. Some of the youths complained there wasn’t shit to do in Fairbanks, which was total B.S. There was plenty to do, but he heard over the years that boredom made the kids get high, drink too much, and fuck like rabbits.
The fucking like rabbits wasn’t a problem within itself, but the unwanted pregnancies and STIs sure were. He imagined in a twenty-year old’s mind, the excuses for such a thing were true, but in his book, drugs still weren’t the answer. He’d seen too many family members, friends, and colleagues fall into the same hands of fate, and it never ended well.
After putting on a clean blue sweater and jeans, he loaded up his black truck to take on the rocky topography. He hoped to get back in a few hours, take a snooze, then off to the park for work. The more time he could spend alone, the better, and the wilderness provided all the damn alone time he could muster…