It is a sorrow we share but do not share. We never talk about the emptiness or the failed attempts to fill the void. We live in a large home that is beautiful and empty. It tastes too much like the flesh of an animal. My husband would make jerky and sausage to share with the men he plays poker with, his brother, strangers at the bar. For the next several months, we would bring our friends all manner of venison wrapped carefully in brown butcher paper, tied with strong twine. There are things that need to be done in order for the kill to provide-the carcass needs to be broken down, the meat stored properly. It is a long, bloody affair, butchering an animal. When we got home, he took his kill to the work shed behind our home and began to butcher. I carried our guns and followed in his footsteps. We bound the deer’s forelegs and hind legs, and my husband carried the open, bloody animal across his shoulders. Later, my husband field dressed the animal, removing all the internal organs. I left my mark on the broad expanse of his back. My husband smelled like an animal and took me like an animal. When he lay on top of me, I spread my thighs, sank my teeth into his shoulder. The woods around us were so silent I felt a certain terror rumbling beneath my rib cage. My husband undressed me slowly, then stood and stared at me naked, shivering next to the animal he killed. I lay back on the ground, now soaked with the deer’s blood.
ROXANE GAY PASS DEATH MY BELOVED SKIN
My husband rubbed his bloody hand over my face and as the blood dried, my skin felt thin and taut. I sucked slowly, tasting the deer’s blood, salty and thick. He ran his thumb across my lower lip, then slid his thumb into my mouth. My husband reached into the dead animal then stared at his hand covered in dark red, almost black blood. The air became sharp and humid with the stench of death. His flesh fell open slowly, warm innards steaming out into the cold air. When the buck was finally dead, I used one fingernail, cutting the creature open from his neck to his rear. My husband prayed, offering acts of contrition into the still air around us. I placed my hand over the buck’s heart, waited for it to stop beating. My husband reached for his knife, preparing to slit the buck’s throat. I pressed my hand to the matted fur, felt the animal’s warmth, the strength of the muscles beneath his coat and the bones beneath the muscle and the blood holding the muscle and bone together. The buck was still alive when we got to him, breathing shallow. My husband nodded his head once, set his rifle down. The bullet hit the deer in his neck, making a neat black hole from which a thin stream of blood began to flow. My husband pulled the trigger and exhaled slowly. The buck turned his head and looked at us with black, glassy eyes. My husband raised his rifle, inhaled deeply, held his finger against the trigger. The creature was indeed majestic-its musculature pronounced, body thick, standing tall. His shoulders slumped as his hope faded but then a massive buck galloped into our sights. He is always looking for God even though he has little faith left.
He believes killing brings him closer to God. “I want to kill something majestic today,” my husband said earlier that morning. Several does passed before us but my husband held one finger to his lips. We spent hours in the deer blind, doused in deer piss, waiting. My husband’s beard smelled like coffee for the rest of the day. He drank coffee from a thermos that used to belong to his father, who is dead from black lung. In the cab of his truck, I leaned against his arm, my eyes closed. As we dressed, I still felt him inside me, sticking to my thighs. When my husband took me hunting with him, he told me not to shower after he lay on top of me heavy, sweaty, his lips pressed against the dark curve of my neck. There is a rawness to how he touches me, as if he is preparing himself for what he is about to do. There is a quality to his efforts that is different, more intense. He always makes love to me before the hunt. At four in the morning, he shook me awake. Last deer season, he took me on a hunt with him.