Serval and Sheep (Chapter 4)
Two sleepless animals face the facts.
Hafsa ate dinner with Solomon and Brian that evening. When she returned to her dorm, she threw it all back up. Claiming it was a pesky stomach bug to Molly, she hoped and prayed it would all leave her system. If she vomited hard enough, maybe that day would simply cease to exist, being flushed down the toilet along with her bile. The meal had been agonizing. Every bite felt perverse. Every swallow felt criminal. All she could think about was Desmond. Underneath her small talk and giggling, she felt so wretched she wanted to die. Each second dragged by like blades against her throat.
For Molly's sake, she lays in bed that night, but that too is torture. Every cell, every nerve in her body is shot. Her body still wants to hunt. But she dares not move a muscle. Trapped in a crypt of her own making, she's left alone with her thoughts. Her many many thoughts.
Hafsa had heard horror stories before, of seemingly harmless and restrained carnies snapping and gorging themselves on herbies. Those were the kind of stories you'd hear during Species Awareness Day presentations.
"The mind of a carnivore is evolutionarily designed to switch from resting mode to hunting mode in less than a second" was the old line. That's why you should always keep food handy, always wear sensory suppressants, always clip your claws. Then they'd hand out nose strips, and that was that. For a serval like Hafsa, these ordeals were always formalities that described something she never quite believed would happen. Like quicksand or plane crashes.
She always believed she was better than the other carnies who lost control. She had be in order to get where she is today. She controlled every aspect of her being during every second. Not a muscle out of place. Ever.
It only takes a moment for everything she lived for to be destroyed. Destroyed by her. And suddenly, the nose strips made a lot more sense.
She was only trying to help. She had noticed his hands were hurt; all she wanted to do was make amends. Why did things turn out like this?
Hafsa wonders if she would've done it. If she really would've devoured Desmond if she had stayed there a second longer. Predation is the worst sin a carnie could ever commit in their life. It's an admittance of savagery.
And yet.
Yet when Hafsa has Desmond pinned by the horns, towering over him, rendering him helpless... When her ears could pick up the blood rushing through his veins and choked breaths... When she could feel his flushed, sweating body tremble in fear, the kind of fear where you can't even think in words anymore... Why? Why did it feel so right?
Hafsa liked to think that instincts could always be overcome by logic. That one is never just the sum of their parts, never just an organic machine destined to mindlessly carry out its biological task.
She now realizes those kinds of thoughts could only ever be fairytales. Piddly excuses to placate her own guilt. No matter how society is shaped, how she relations with other animals, deep down, she knows she was born to kill. That thought made her want to vomit again. She so desperately wanted to be a good person. She believes with all her heart she wouldn't want to ever harm another living creature, much less a classmate. She cares about life, she respects how precious it is. She's not a killer. But can she ever trust these thoughts again?
So... What now?
Would Desmond report her? For physical assault at best? Attempted predation at worst? Would she have to go to juvie? Would all of the fruits of her labor she fought and bled for simply dissolve into nothingness?
No, Desmond wouldn't tell. He's the sort to never admit he'd been shaken up. But, isn't this even worse? Now she was forced to work alongside a student she had attacked. Being constantly reminded of her crime every time she looked at him. Stepping down is not an option. Should she threaten him to resign? No, that would be even more despicable.
The grim realization slowly settles in her mind. They were going to have to pretend it never happened. For as much as it kills them inside, there's too much on the line. Come Thursday, she would be Hafsa again. Head cheerleader. Student council president. School socialite. Carnivore in name only.
Desmond charges into the sand-filled bag once more, a pathetic yelp escaping his throat upon impact. It's late, far too late for this to be reasonable. But there is no way in hell he would be sleeping tonight. As the captain of the ram fighting club, he keeps spare keys to the training room. The beat-up old punching bag is the only friend he could vent to about what happened. He grips the bag in a bear hug, twisting his horns deep into it. The thick skin of the bag, designed for ramming practice, was not going to be pierced so easily.
His body still shakes. It hasn't stopped trembling since then.
There's a saying amongst herbies. They say "the only thing worse than dying from a predation attack is surviving a predation attack." They say those who live can never look at carnies the same way ever again.
Desmond didn't want to become a paranoid wretch, eternally looking over his shoulder. He knows he has to be strong, so that something like this would never happen again. Sheep may be weak, but they have horns. He thought he was finally strong enough to defend himself this time.
What a fool he was.
The sheep lets go of the punching bag and backs up for another charge. Tilting his head slightly to aim his horn for the middle, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. His singlet reveals the slim, petite body underneath. He's well-built for a Jacob sheep, and the piebald pattern of his freshly shaved fur curve around his muscles, accentuating them. But to a carnie... what does a carnie see when they look at him?
He returns his gaze to the ragged punching bag. How many times had he rammed into it before? How many of those stitched-up gashes are his doing? Ultimately, it doesn't matter. He could send that bag to hell and back, but he knows that's all he can ever hurt.
If he had stood his ground, he could've knocked her out. If he had given her a good headbutt, he would've never seen those horrible eyes. But he never would've fought back. Because prey is prey and predator is predator. And prey doesn't fight back.
"If I were her, I would've eaten me." He thinks. Why didn't she? Her attack was so sudden it could've only been out of murderous intent. He meant to provoke her, but didn't expect her to pounce like that.
Carnivores like her are menaces. Sweet and cute to your face, all the while secretly drooling over you behind your back. To her, all herbies are just livestock, to be cared for and petted, keeping them unaware of their future slaughter. Desmond would shake a known predator's hand before hers.
He smirks miserably. And now she's student council president. His superior. He should quit before she gets hungry again. But he won't. Scum like her won't try that again, now that he's figured her out. She probably wants everything to go back to the way it was. And for now, he was going to let her.
Desmond knows his place. He didn't even bother running for student council president after he saw her name on the list of aspiring candidates. A sheep is a creature meant to be exploited and killed. That is the only future he can expect.
Suddenly, he just wants to go back to his room.