That's Just the Way it Goes

CW: Contains themes of and/or references to childhood abuse and animal death

I have always been a pessimistic man. My daughters used to hate me for this. Every time something bad or unfortunate happens, I think, "That's just the way it goes." Sometimes, I follow it up with another phrase, in order to complete my belief, "Life keeps going." Of course, it is not just a belief, it is a fact. As we all know, life keeps on going no matter where you believe you have stopped in it. It won't wait for you to cope, or think, or contemplate, so why should you? Carry on. That's what I think, anyway. With the addition of people spouting their opinions online due to being paid to spread such lofty ideals, my daughters have tried numerous times to diagnose me with some sort of condition to explain my seemingly unordinary outlook. They particularly hinged on the word "dissociating"; or, as they explained, separating from everyone and reality as a whole. I do not care much for this adjective, because it's not true. It makes me sound like a psycho. I don't separate from things.

They know I used to have friends. I was in the military, Marines, Hoorah! But we have all separated, just as we must. And we must carry on. Separating from my people in the Marines is no different than moving on from your friends in high school once you graduate. People treat these things as if they're the most heartbreaking tragedies, when they have thirty, forty plus years to meet new people and make more friends. My daughters ask me why I do not go out and meet new people then. I tell them, simply, that I don't need to. What would meeting new people now do for me? I value the time and memories I had with the ones before. It ain't mean that I miss them.

I have found solace instead in other activities. Hunting, mainly. Being alone in the woods, surrounded by nothing but small critters who fear your every step, and going about your business doing one of the most natural things on this planet gives me peace. My daughters think this is another symptom of my inherent inability to cope with what they dub as "trauma". They think wanting to be alone is a sign of something wrong. It is not, at least not for me. They believe that because I can't, nor want to be around people (again because of my “dissociation”), that I then spend more time with animals and nature.

One of them has recently brought up a point that I go hunting because I can't stand being home. When I jokingly said that it was because of them, she froze me in place when she brought up that, in fact, it was because the house has memories of their grandmother and their mother.

Their grandmother, my mother, was a right bitch. Snappy, snarky, and downright aggressive, she'd hit you with anything she could grab or lock you out of the house if you so much as crossed her. I am not ashamed to say that when I was younger, I feared my mother. This would eventually grow into hate, as I realized she drove out my father. I joined the Marines as it was the quickest way out of this house. She would die in my first few days of boot camp. I found out what happened to her from the coroner and neighbors.

I received a letter saying that her dungy house, the house I grew up in, was now mine by statements of her will. This initially caught me by surprise. I knew I would naturally get the house, being the most legal, immediate family to her, but for her to expressly state it in her will didn't seem like her. How could the woman who locked me out of her house for anything I did that she deemed stupid, the woman who would easily throw her hand across my face, the woman who always said that my ass would grow up to be a coward, liar, and a good-for-nothing, decide willingly that I would inherit her house?

Maybe it was in one of her hysterics. She had many of those. A state of mind she usually blamed me as the cause for her entering. The only one she didn't, or well, couldn't blame me for was the one she was in when she died.

But I shrugged it off. My mother was dead. Who cares why she did it. I had a free house to return to. That's just the way it goes.

The memories of that God-forsaken house would be replaced with memories of a god blessed woman. She was beautiful and radiant. I met her while in the Marines, obviously. Most of my friends thought her nerdy with her glasses, her frizzy hair, her overalls, and her pug nose. While those things are true, she was also bright, smart and a very caring woman. She had an interesting way of seeing things. She took life at face value, and dealt with its beatings with her head held high and her shoulders back.

I'm embarrassed to say I admired her. Even life had nearly kicked me down once or twice. But for her, it seemed to never penetrate her. She never tripped. She never faltered.

I was jealous of her, and I tried to copy her. It was impossible though, and instead I was content with having that kind of person by my side for the rest of my life. At least I wanted to. Well, maybe I hoped to. All her shouldering and uncaring attitude towards life must've made the mistress angry. It gave my woman cancer in her breasts. She said it was a trait that ran in her family. At first, she fought it with the brilliance and headstrong attitude she always had. But it eventually ate too much of her.

I saw her weak, and pale, and thin. I saw her eyes sometimes see nothing, and how much peace that gave her. I watched life beating the shit out of her right in front of my eyes. I can't lie and say there weren't times when I didn't want to see her. How could she become like that? How could she be so weak? But, she was only human. I had to realize that. And what happened to her was the way life was.

Everything about us is a gamble. All we can do is make sure we stack the odds high enough.

I found it silly for them to think that these two situations caused me to become, what they are essentially describing as, depressed. I told my daughter that all that was in the past. And it was true, it is all in the past. There was nothing I could do for either situation.

In hindsight, could I have left a letter notifying my mother as to where I went when I sought enlistment? Maybe. In rumination, could I have sucked it up, and visited my wife more than every two months? Sure. But I wasn't thinking about that kind of thing at the time. And what would thinking about it do for me now?

Could've, would've, should've, but I didn't. That's just the way it goes. And I carry on.

But my daughters are all out of the house now. They're both in college, so I finally get a reprieve from being diagnosed. I am here, now, in the woods. I usually spend my weekends here, hunting fowl near the lake, and deer if it's the season. Sometimes I think of getting a dog to make the job of retrieval easier. I don't make a habit of hunting predators, like some hunters. I have no need for their pelts or anything similar. Not to mention, prey is a bit easier to find.

The most interesting thing about hunting in these woods is getting to witness animal behavior. Having to spend hours of doing what is basically nothing, you get to watch the animals. You see squirrels and the way they sleep on tree branches with one eye open. You hear that male and female cardinals sing duets. Most birds don't do that. You get to hear that the earliest bird to sing in the morning is not the robin, but in fact, an owl. And every now and then, I'll catch sight of a baby deer doing camouflage. It's always startling to realize what you're seeing. I'll notice the odd black line in the leaves, or roots, or log first. And then my brain sees it.

I'm walking, currently, to my den that I built. Originally it was built as a hunting fortress, but I turned it into my hunting den entirely. It's not furnished or anything, except for one chest, which has snacks.

As I'm walking, I spot it, the black line of something darting through the undergrowth. I turn, to suddenly make eye contact with the black, beady eyes of a baby deer. It suddenly turned around pretty quickly from facing me, stomping its foot into the grass. Something jumped back. I saw the black gradient inking the legs first. Then, the orange pelt stood out.

The baby was being hunted by a fox.

I froze as the fox jumped to the side, the baby followed its movement, stomping again. It was trying to scare it, just like their mother most likely did. Apparently, they have scent markers on their hooves. Stomping the ground releases them. But I knew that baby was showing the fox nothing but fear. Perhaps the scent was more for calling its mother than scaring the fox.

The fox kept jumping in a circle around the baby, trying to get behind its back. But the baby was unrelenting. At least it was smart.

I glanced around. Where was the mother? How long did it take to eat?

I stood watching their dance for a bit longer before realizing what I was doing. This was just part of nature. That's just the way it goes. Hopefully its mother returned soon.

Just as I had made the plan to carry on, the baby and fox made a full circle, coming back to me.

The baby's head shot up, as if it forgot it initially saw me. The fox jumped to the side in those seconds, the baby didn't follow it.

The fox was an opportunist. It jumped forward, sunk its fangs into the baby's neck, and toppled the baby over.

The fox thrashed, jostling the baby. Now the child screamed. It was a wailing that sounded like a goat.

I looked around again. Where was its mother? She had to get back now.

I turned back to the scene. The fox was still throwing its head around. It looked painful. What a painful death it was to be slowly choked. It was almost too painful a reminder. But that's just the way it goes.

I meant to turn, to continue on. But I didn't move. The baby's cries had died down. The fox had ceased its flailing. I could still hear the child though. It was whimpering. It was trying to breathe, trying to still call for help. The mother wouldn't make it back in time.

It would die soon, and then it would have peace. Its whimpering would stop. Its pain would stop. The beeping would stop. The smell would stop. The crying would stop.

The mother would return to find her child gone. The mother would probably worry, then become frantic. The mother would run out into the night, looking frantically for her boy who disappeared. Then maybe she would be hit by a car. But that was just the way it goes. That's just the way it all went.

Could I have done something different? Sure. Would I have done something different? Maybe. But I didn't, I couldn't, I wouldn't. I should've.

The baby whimpered again. It opened its mouth in what felt like ages. A tiny sound, a low bleat came out. I blinked, and I was aiming.

"How do you think dad's getting on?" Simone asked Siobhan.

Her sister shrugged nonchalantly, "Probably like he always does." She replied. "He went hunting a little while ago, so he should be in a right mood to greet us." She said sarcastically.

Simone thought the same thing. Dad was always a bit upset whenever they visited him after a hunting trip. She used to think it was because he didn't like their company, but she soon realized it was because he simply liked to be alone. "He, at the very least, has never thrown us out, or turned us away." Simone replied.

Siobhan nodded slightly, "True. But if he's doing deer burgers again, I might turn away."

Simone laughed. "They ain't that bad. It's only cause we know they're deer."

"Yeah, it don't change nothing."

They arrived at the driveway, still arguing about the ways of culinary, and walked up to the porch. They knocked on the door, to be greeted shortly by their father.

He was no different than how they left him. Both girls were quite happy about that. When they went off to college, they worried that with him finally being alone, his angry and depressing thoughts might get the better of him.

But it had been four months since they started college, and he looked none worse for wear on any of their visits. They often found themselves thinking on these visits that they may have judged him too harshly in their youth. Maybe their father was simply happy being alone. But Siobhan always thought he should at least have a dog.

They happily greeted him, hugged him, and stepped inside. The house was still tidy and clean, which always surprised them given that he hunts.

"You girls want anything to eat?" He asked.

Siobhan visibly cringed. "Is it another burger?"

Their dad smiled gently, "No. I have fruit this time." He said. Siobhan seemed relieved, and quickly made her way to the kitchen. As she passed by the corner, she noticed an object she had never seen before.

At first, she thought he had gotten a dog. But she quickly realized it was the sitting figure of a fox.

"Pa!" She called.

"Hm?" Was his reply.

"Is this real?" She asked, stepping out of the corner, pointing.

Their father nodded. "Yeah, it's real. Killed it while out two weeks ago. Got it taxidermied."

"I thought you didn't hunt predators." Simone said.

Their dad shrugged. "Things change. That's just the way things go."