Chapter eight: protest against death
As he fled, heart pounding like a frantic drum, he stumbled upon a creature similar to him but larger, with imposing horns. Before he could react, the creature collapsed beside him, its heavy body sending him tumbling down a steep, treacherous slope. Twigs and sharp rocks tore at his skin, and his small paw twisted painfully.
At the bottom, the world spun as he teetered on the edge of a cliff. Desperation ignited a spark of survival. With trembling paws, he grasped at a vine, his heart pounding in his ears. Inch by agonizing inch, he pulled himself up, his muscles screaming in protest. Finally, he collapsed on the soft earth, gasping for breath.
Relief washed over him, but it was short-lived. The familiar, terrifying boom echoed through the forest. Fear paralyzed him as he curled into a tight ball, his eyes wide with terror. Voices, cold and calculating, reached his ears.
"A fox? Perfect."
"Let's skin it."
His heart froze. They were talking about him. Panic surged through him as he tried to flee, but his body refused to obey. He slipped, his world tilting, and then darkness consumed him.
He plummeted into icy water, the current tugging at him relentlessly. Fighting for survival, he spotted a broken branch and grabbed it with desperate claws. One by one, his claws slipped off, leaving him bleeding and exhausted. With a final surge of strength, he pulled himself onto the riverbank, collapsing in the warm sand.
His body ached, his lungs burned, and his heart pounded like a war drum. Yet, a sense of triumph washed over him. He had survived. Exhaustion claimed him, and he drifted into unconsciousness, the rhythmic lapping of the water a soothing lullaby.