Stuck

Maverick sliced through the thickets with his good hand. The war had left the vines tangling everything, so he went out and sliced a little every day until the voices came back. He scratched the place where his arm abruptly ended. It was an awkward spot, and the woman that took it seemed to know it when she fired point-blank into his arm. He could still see those ravenous blue eyes, how she bit her lip as she smiled at her cruel handiwork, her voice as she whispered--

"Let go, you goddamn heathen!"

Maverick nearly dropped his knife, then raced towards the sound of the woman's voice. He raised his knife to see a tiny woman wrestling with a lynx. The poor creature had a dying rabbit in his teeth, and she had its neck in the crook of her elbow and her petite legs were clasping its torso. It tried to twist and gnash at her only to find itself feeling a fist.

"This wouldn't be happening if you didn't try to steal what was clearly mine!"

The cat snarled and she hit it again. Maverick cleared his throat.

"Need something?" she said without looking up.

"Are you okay?" he asked hesitantly.

"He'll be fine if he lets go," she emphasized the last two words by constricting the cat longer.

Finally getting the message, the lynx dropped its prey and twisted to bite the young woman, but she turned at the last second and kicked it. The cat flew in the mud, snarled, and stalked off. The woman stood, barely coming to Maverick's nipples. She picked up the rabbit, who had bled out and died during the struggle, and went up to a tree. She lept up and pulled down two more dead rabbits, wrapped in cloth, and hopped down. Maverick just watched stupidly.

"You need something?" she asked.

"You are--"

"If you say short, I will cut you nipple to nipple," she growled. "I know I'm short."

"What made you?"

"Excuse me," she said, putting her hand on her hip.

"I mean, you wrestled a wild animal," he stammered.

"It took what was mine. I have kids to feed. I can't afford to lose food. You should know that, Tubby."

"You... Why wouldn't your husband take care of that?"

The woman scoffed at the notion. "I don't have a husband. I help my mother."

"Doesn't the state help you with your... handicap?"

She made a face. "Does it help you with yours?"

He said nothing. She slung the bag over her shoulder and pulled a knife that was easily half her size out of a bough of the tree and started to walk away. Something took over Maverick suddenly and he yelled, "Wait!"

"Why would I do that?" she called back, walking away.

"I just-- I-- I haven't spoken this long in ages. Please, I need to talk. I have been in quarantine and--"

"You're sick?" she said, stepping back despite the dramatic distance between them.

"No, I-- this--"

She smirked. "You look like you lost something."

Maverick chuckled. "It happens when you go to war too young."

"I know the feeling," she replied, rolling up her sleeve, flashing a war tattoo.

"Royal Parlor?"

"The one and only. Killed a lot. That's why I hunt and live at home now."

"I live with my sister and my niece," he muttered to the ground. "It is very difficult."

"I can imagine. Kids are cruel."

"Is that why you fight so good?"

The woman shrugged. "I fight because it teaches people to watch who they mess with. Don't you agree? Bet you wouldn't fight whoever stole your arm from you."

He was suddenly back on the battlefield, watching her tackling him. His heart was pounding as this woman pinned him and dragged him into the forest away from his squadron. He could smell the blood dripping off of her. They had called her Vilkas in the camp, and once their side had infiltrated their hiding spot, he saw why. She had ripped through people with a smile on her face. Now seeing her so close, he could see the trillions of scars that lined her worn skin. Her eyes lacked mercy for all she knew was bloodshed. She told him her whole story when she looked him, an innocent sixteen-year-old drafted unjustly, and still put a bullet directly into his arm.

The blast rippled through him, tearing his arm apart, pulling him down to the ground. The blood-soaked snow was gone, replaced my the squishy mud that he was clawing. He clutched his arm instinctively and looked around. The whole world had changed in an instant. He was alone again, in the middle of the forest, bleeding from where his machete had sliced through his pants as he had screamed out. The girl and her rabbits were gone. Vilkas was gone, killed shortly after he'd screamed in pain by his squad leader. He was just a man forced to grow up too fast, kneeling in the sludge, sobbing about the past. After a minute, he took a deep breath, got up, and started back to his house where his sister would be waiting with medicine and a hug. His mind briefly wandered back to the tiny woman but, deciding he would probably never see her again, he let the thought go and continued trudging back through the newly cut thickets.