On being a predator

Involves some slightly graphic imagery, so scroll past if that makes you uncomfortable.

While prey are hunted by the predators, the predators are hunted by the Hunt. We crave it. The adrenaline, the speed of the chase, the kill. During the Hunt a predator is almost sadistic. We do not enjoy the prey’s pain – we know what is being sacrificed for us – but that does not mean we do not enjoy the other sensations involved. The satisfaction of claws and teeth, digging deeper, convulsions slowing, the smells of fear and sweat and blood.

These are not things I am supposed to think about.

Hearing pigs on the farm, following deer tracks in the woods, or even watching a squirrel run across the yard and sometimes all my predator-brain can think about is the Hunt.

I keep my nails short because they are supposed to be sheathed, but perhaps it is also because the sensation of long ones is too natural. If I grow my claws out then before I know it I’ll be sharpening them into points to draw blood.

I slashed someone with my claws once, when I was little. My brother and I were in the pool playing and I felt threatened. There were long red marks on his side, and he cried. I cried, too. I thought it was because I was sorry, but really it was because I wasn’t. I liked the feeling of my nails on his skin, the rush of the moment, and the surrender.

That was the first and last time I let myself do what I really wanted to.

Scenes of human violence make me nauseous. I avoid conflict like the plague and dislike almost nobody, but there is a predator inside me.

I am not supposed to have sudden fantasies of teeth and claws and skin and bones, but I do.

There is a predator inside me.

I am a predator.