One- Moon Dance
Humanity measures it's life in years, birthdays and moments with loved ones. But we, as Hunters, have learned to measure our lives with the moments we've brushed death, both figuratively and literally. What we deal with, what we harbor and what we've sacrificed, are the things you've only seen in your worst, most vivid nightmares. This life, our jobs, is what keeps you regular people alive, breathing and ignorant to what is lurking in the shadows of your what seems to save neighborhoods. But where does it start? Who truly just decides to put themselves on this life path?
The truth is, it's not a decision. It never is. For me, it was a one way ticket to nonstop vengeance.
My name is Dani, last names don't matter here, not unless you're the Winchesters. But that name hasn't been in circle in years. Not since they were killed by Crowley, King of Hell. But that was a long time ago. We can't think that heroes are immortal. The reality is that our heroes are the quickest to die, they are brave and they are stupid. And they all have their own horror story
I guess mine started when I was seventeen. I came home from school one day to see a blood a trail from the foyer to the kitchen. Heart racing, I sprinted into the kitchen to see my brothers body splayed on the white tile floor, wrists slit open and tongue cut out. I screamed out for my mother and father and they rushed into the kitchen looking just as alarmed as I did. But their alarm turned into blood chilling smiles and their eyes glossed over into midnight black.
I couldn't really process what happened next. I witnessed my parents take a blade to each of their necks, sever their Carotid arteries and drop dead in front of me.
I spent a year in the upstate New York psychiatric facility after that, to cope. I'd love to say that through intense therapy and time I moved on, and gotten over the black eyes that haunt my nightmares. But the truth is, after being there for a month, I'd learned that the horror of my families of my death and horrors one experiences in asylum are equal in damage. I had also learned that the only way you can learn to cope and deal with your problem is lie that you're fine until everyone starts to believe you. Some days, even you'll believe you.
The day I was released was the day the hunt began. I was a kid who was scarred, angry, and stupid. I didn't know what I was doing, what I was looking for, what I was hunting.
I was eighteen when they let me out. Old enough for the state to leave me out on my own, with whatever money I had earned from the insurance money. I had no other family anywhere being that my parents both emigrated caribbean islands. I was alone. It's been five years and I still am alone.
As I said before, we hunters measure our lives with the amount of times we've barely escaped death.
Today, I am forty three. I am standing in the middle of pennsylvania forest. She is behind me, breathing heavily, and snarling. She is hungry and I am her prey. But little does she know that she is the one who was being hunted the entire time. As quickly as I can I grab the blade strapped to my calf and whip around to meet her golden slit eyes and slam the silver blade directly into her chest and hard and deeply as I can.
She howls for a second before whimpering and dropping to the ground. Her body lays pale, her teeth have retracted and her eyes back to normal. I do not enjoy the hunt of the wolves. It's once you've killed them that you realize they have something that most hunters have lost. Their humanity.
After severing her head and burying the body in deeper into the forest, I hurry back to my black jeep wrangler and head back north. I turn on the radio and a smile plays against my lips as Michael Buble's voice fills my truck.
"Well it's a marvelous night for a moon dance."
