The crunching of leaves was heard as a father and his son walked through the woods. The young boy couldn't see much in front of him. Darkness consumed everything, making him squint. However, his father marched forward, seemingly guided by the bits of moonlight that reached between the trees. The boy clutched his jacket, pulling it closer to himself. He only felt the warmth from the fog of his own breath reaching him as he walked forward also.

"I got something to tell ya', son," the man called out.

The boy looked up, barely hearing his father since he hadn't turned around. "What is it?" he asked.

"Me and my men went out tonight to fight a monster," the man explained. "This huge thing."

"I didn't hear about a monster," the boy told him.

"Most kids ain't allowed out at night, you know that," his father said. "Besides, beasts like these only come out when the moon calls 'em. And it's up to men like me to stop them from destroying this town."

"Will I fight monsters when I get older?" the boy questioned.

For the first time, his father turned around. The young boy looked at his pale face, his own reflecting in the older man's eyes which were alight with glee.

"I hope you will."

…

"Where are we going?" the boy wondered aloud. "We're walking pretty far. There's nothing to hunt right now either."

"The hunting is already done, boy, I told ya'," his father reminded him. "Us men took care of it."

"Then what are we doing out here?" his son asked. The poor boy's eyes were already drooping, his freezing eyelids were the only thing keeping him awake as he blinked.

"Aren't ya' gonna ask about the monster?" his father asked him. "I thought kids your age liked hearing stories."

The young boy shrugged. He stared at the ground as he followed his dad. In his daze, he saw bits of red. He rubbed his eyes and looked again curiously. The crimson spots were now behind him, and he turned around to get a better look.

"What a' ya' looking back there for?" his dad asked. "You need to watch where ya' goin'."

The son's head reluctantly turned back forward. "So… where did the monster come from?" he questioned.

"No one ever knows really," the man answered. "They just come. No one ever asks for 'em."

"You said you fought the monster, Dad," the son started, "... Did you win?"

The father laughed, his head thrown back and his face towards the dark sky. His son walked uneasily behind him, not understanding if there was any joke said. For a split second, his eyes found another spot of red on the crunched leaves around him. He was tempted to look around again. Just one more look -

"Why would I bring you out here if it wasn't safe?" his father asked him smartly. "Of course, we won. We chased him far outta town. That son of bitch put up a fight, but it wasn't anything we couldn't handle."

"What'd it look like?" the young boy asked.

The man stopped in his tracks, and his son immediately halted too. The pause allowed them to hear the wind running by their ears. The man shuddered and turned around.

"Ya' wouldn't believe it, son," he began. "He was huge - 8 feet tall, I bet! It was dark, made to hide in the shadows-"

"That's why it comes out at night, right?" the boy connected.

"Yeah, yeah," the man agreed. "And he was strong! He was knocking our men back during the fight. Our neighbor Mike was out cold after fighting it on his own. We couldn't believe it."

The man waved his arms in emphasis. "And he had claws. Boy, did he have 'em," he continued. He held up his hairy hand, spreading his fingers in front of the boy's face. "His claws were a foot long," he described. "Long and dirty. And he had sharp, yella' teeth. I'm pretty sure I saw some of his lunch in there."

The boy cringed. "But how did you stop it?" he asked interestedly. "Is it in a trap or somethin'?"

His father shook his head. "We don't trap things like that. We just get rid of 'em," he said. "There's no use in holding it. It'll get out sooner or later." The boy nodded his head in understanding.

"How did you stop it?" he asked.

The man smiled brightly in triumph. He put one hand on his hip and flexed the bicep of his other arm.

"I took care of 'em with my rifle," he boasted. "Right in the leg, 'cause that coward was runnin' for his life when he saw me." He turned around again and kept walking. "Of course, it didn't matter. I'm a straight shot."

"Wow," his son admired.

He felt warm on the inside as he walked too, following his father's footsteps. His dad was a hero, a conqueror of beasts, the protector of the town. His dad defended his home as he slept and he hadn't known all along. He held his head high and copied his father's determined strides through the forest.

"Are we gonna see the beast?" he questioned.

"We are, son," his dad answered. "I think you're at that age when you should learn about these things. It's only right that you'll get to see it. Because soon, this is what you'll do for your wife and kids."

The boy nodded his head. Soon, he too would be a man. Although seeing the carcass of a fallen monster seemed frightening, he knew it would be an honor to be there.

…

The leaves continued to crunch under their feet. No longer tired, the boy's eyes were wide with curiosity. In the distance, he saw other people in a crowd. He figured they were the other men that helped his father defeat the beast. He puffed up his chest, determined to become even a fraction as tough as they.

Finally they reached the crowd. Not only were there men, but women too. The boy didn't know women could be so brave. He wondered why didn't his mother fight beasts also. As he followed his father, the other men around called his name and cheered. They raised their fists in triumph and cheer, and the boy knew he could feel the love radiating all around. He was determined now. He too would be a fighter of monsters.

His father came to a large tree, finally stopping. The boy sucked in a breath, the reveal would mark his manhood. His father halfway turned around then stepped aside, gesturing to the prize.

"... Where's the monster?" the boy asked quietly.

"What do ya' mean?" the man questioned, puzzled. "It's right there. It's ugly, ain't it?"

"... Dad, that's not a monster…," his son stated warily.

The warmth had gone from the boy's body. The feeling of triumph was weakened. The sight had made him a man.

The father rubbed his hand through his straight hair and sighed in irritation. Why didn't his son understand the work he and his men had put forth tonight? He crossed his arms and stared at his son, disappointed. His son looked up at him with confusion and disappointment. As their eyes met, the father felt a new wave of feeling consume him. Bothered, he turned away. He looked at the beast again, then stood aghast.

There was a man. He hung lifelessly from the tree, barely swinging to the coercion of the wind. The thickness of the tree made his body seem even frailer in comparison. He looked to his hands. They were scratched up, dried blood marking them, his knuckles bruised with struggle. One finger was missing. His clothes were torn in several places showing tortured skin. A hole was punctured through his leg. Reluctantly, the father looked up into his face. The man's lips were set in a grim line of acceptance. He looked into his eyes. There, he saw death itself. The light had long ago vanished. The eyes saw through him, spoke to him. The sight made him a man.

The father turned around to his people. He saw families smiling in happiness. He saw men giving each other handshakes. Women were hugging and sharing their warm, home-cooked meals and recipes. One woman twirled a brown finger between her own pale ones one with a picture perfect smile.

Then he heard.

Light conversation filled the forest. The jokes, children laughing. The lively music playing from old scratchy radios. But deep, deep into the forest, he heard something new. He heard the sorrowful howls back in the town. The torn cries of the suffering, the screams of agony. They reached to him, pushing into his eardrums and pulling at his chest. It was too much to turn around. It was if something was holding him back, something declaring him unworthy. As he looked at his people, they carried happily on with their festivities.

The cries became louder, almost as if people were dying right over his shoulder. The burden of the pain poured onto his back like thousands of gallons of water from a waterfall. Men, women, children - all crying, all pleading, "WHY, WHY, WHY!" They cried to the God he too claimed, but somehow he didn't feel as connected. He felt overwhelmed, weak. He didn't understand all the feelings that came to him. Confusion, guilt. It all weighed heavily on his heart. He could collapse to the ground at any moment. He was too uncomfortable, he wanted it to end.

He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears. He sang to the radio that whispered through the people. He focused on the recipes, the claps of the hands of men as they smiled triumphantly at each other. He too wanted to be triumphant. He wanted to be anything as long as the pain would stop.

Soon, that was all he heard. The cries had gone. The screams withdrew from his eardrums. His heart wasn't heavy. There was nothing clutching his chest with a deathlike grip. The radio played clearly and the conversations were clear. Mike. Yes, Mike was alright. He would be okay tomorrow morning. Men like him are strong. The man looked ahead of him and back at the tree. The monster had again appeared, and it was vanquished. He felt triumphant. He turned around, head held high above his son. Then he walked away to join the picnic with the others.

The End