The Boar

November 22, 2009

I always wondered why babies cry when I walk by, and now I know. I am a beast.

You ask me how I know. You see, I was walking through a beautiful forest on a Sunday afternoon stroll when a horrible snort sounded in the bushes to my right. I whirled and came face to face with an enormous hairy boar with two red eyes and long bloodied tusks.

I couldn’t move. But when the boar charged I managed to uproot my feet and run. Through the brush, over rocks, leaping ditches—I don’t remember because panic had shut down my mind.

Blind with that terror, I ran straight into a small canyon and pulled up hard at the base of a cliff. I could hear the beast’s snorting behind and I knew that my back would be pierced by those tusks. When I spun to face it, the boar slid to a glaring stop, a ferocious sight that turned me to ice.

It grunted once and charged, and I lost my mind to fear. I screamed bloody murder and threw myself directly for it, perhaps with a desperate hope it would turn and flee.

It did not flee. It took me head on.

But instead of smashing into those bloodied tusks, I crashed into mirrored glass that shattered and fell to the ground. I stood panting. The boar was gone. The only blood was on my forearms, where the mirror had cut me.

So you see, that is how I know that I am a beast.

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