So I was thinking about Feyre and what it might have been like on a normal day of hunting, and, well, this is it. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: A Court of Thorns and Roses and its characters belong to SJM, not me. The plot is mine.

The blood on my hands makes me want to gag. Ungloved, knee deep in snow, my fingers had long gone numb. But I could still feel it. The unnatural warmth pumping onto my palm as I tried to staunch the wound, slowly cooling, until it was little more than dull red frozen to my skin.

I was too late. Too damn late. Food - we needed food, but we could survive off what rations we had, what money I had managed to hide and store. We could survive.

I look at the body at my feet. A soft layer of brown fur covers its body, still open eyes staring out into space. It's the body of an animal, I remind myself. An animal. A beast.

A mother.

A sob breaks out of my body, forcing itself into the vicious world, sending knives of ice down my throat and into my heart.

I had spotted the doe running through the woods. It was moving slower than usual, and I had thanked my stars for my luck. An easy kill.

I'd already set my sights. Drawn.

Just as I released, a small head had poked out of the ferns at its mother's feet.

The next thing it knew, its mother was dead, bleeding onto the pristine white blanket of the forest floor.

I had tried, oh I had tried, but I was too late.

And I had doomed an innocent soul to death.

If the poor thing was lucky.

I drop to my knees, scraping away at the snow near the doe. When it had first fallen, the snow had melted, creating a beautifully horrific watercolor of blood. The mixture had started to solidify in the merciless cold.

I blankly gather my supplies, fighting a strong gale as ti attempts to force me off my path back to the cottage.

The body drops to the ground outside of the cottage. As I start to skin he- no, it, I hear Nesta and my father from inside.

"Again?!" she screams, throwing his latest piece of wood onto the floor with a loud bang.

I can imagine him raising his free hand, torn between trying to pacify her and cower, as he replies. "Nesta," he pleads.

I drop one of the doe's legs into a large metal bucket.

"You gambled away the last of our stored money," Nesta spits at him, voice low. "It's gone. Now we have to wait for Feyre," she says my name with the same contempt as 'gambling', "and she barely ever comes home before sun down."

I sigh, skinning a section of pelt.

"I made a small investment—"

"In what?" Nesta yells. "In your alcohol? In a goddamned bar?"

In goes another limb.

My father sighs. It's a defeated sigh, the type you head when someone is done with life. It's the type that comes with hunched shoulders and tears and hopelessness.

"You're useless," Nesta spits at him, storming away.

Elain is trying to calm Nesta down when I place the iron bucket outside the door. I alert them to it with a sharp knock.

I doubt they dear it.

By the time they've opened the door to find the meat, I'm already halfway to the market.

"It's the dead of winter," I argue with the man, "the pelt is worth much more than that."

The man snorted. "It's badly cut and bloody, girl," he sneers. "What I'm giving you is a steal."

I shrug. "Goodbye, then." It's not a steal. A steal is what I've done, what I do every day. I steal innocent lives and ruin several more and for what? It's no worse than…

"Wait!" he calls, frantic. I give myself a small smile. It's more of a wince. He recently had a baby girl. "I'll give it to you for ten."

"Twenty," I counter.

He chews on his lip. "Fifteen."

"Seventeen."

"Sixteen."

I hold out my gloved palm. "Deal," I say as we shake on it.

I walk home with a pocket sixteen coins heavier.

My heart doesn't feels the same.

The creaking hinges to the door alert my family to my arrival. I doubt they would have noticed otherwise. Nesta was right. It was far after sundown. Not that she did anything to help.

I walk to our measly kitchen. Three plates, dirty, stacked. There's a slab of raw meat waiting for me.

I sigh and get to work. As I cook the meat I warm my hands, the heat seeping through the gloves that are all but glued to my hands. I doubt that I could take them off.

I eat in silence, head drooping down. There's no sound save for the crackle of the fire and Nesta and Elain's murmers. Father's fallen asleep on the ragged couch again, booze in hand, a half-finished block of wood fallen next to him.

Nesta and Elain have a small book with them. I try to read the title, but Nesta catches my eye and my gaze flickers down. I should keep it up, but I can't. Not today.

We go to bed without a fuss. Elain convinces Nesta to sleep, dragging her to our measly bed, and Father lays knocked out on the scraps we call a couch. As usual I'm the last to sleep, wiping away the scraps on my plate. I pull a woolen blanket over Father, stripping off my winter clothes.

I pull off my gloves right before I fall asleep.

I awake the next day before sunup. As I creep out of the house, careful not to wake my sisters or Father, I notice something.

I never washed the blood off my hands.

AN:

Hey guys! Whaddoya think?

This kinda popped up into my head a couple hours ago, and instead of doing homework, I did this. I don't like school :(

Any questions? Comments? Suggestions?

Please review!

Random Fact: I love The X-Files.

Stay Awesome!

franklyherondale