Staying Alive.

I open my eyes to the same blank ceiling I always open them to.
At my side, my brother Henri turns over and sighs fretfully in his sleep. At his side, my mother absently brushes hair back from her face with shut eyes.
I am the only one awake.
I extract myself from Henri's small limbs, and stretch, cat-like, before moving to the one-roomed home's doorway.
I snatch my bow and arrow from behind the talk oak as I flit down the fields towards the forest.
The bow feels ready in my hands. It sings to me.
I think of Henri, think of Mother.
I pull my bow into position as I spot a doe.
She's a beautiful animal. But that's all she is. I had to learn long ago, to feel remorse was weakness.
I kill to feed my family.
Because nobody else will.
Nobody else cares.