The Horror...the Horror*

Don't! Do NOT mistake the wide black eyes' gaze as a mere stare. The 7-year-old kid's eyes are actually hugging the Amazon swamps as his fast-beating muscle-clock shot Adrenaline-saturated blood to sharpen his senses. The Amazon River was flowing in slow motion as his muscle-clock was counting seconds in each split second counted by the digital watch on my wrest.

He didn't see me. But intuition has already told him that another soul is wandering around, vigilantly watching, attentively listening to the apocalyptic rhythm of his heart beat. I wonder if he could hear mine? Because I was not dancing.

He didn't see me. Not yet. We sniff each other from distance. "The horror...the horror"...the feeling that smells sharper than steaknife through a bar of warm butter. The sensation that haunts the simple duality of hunting. Who's the game? What is the game? Why is the game?

A deep breath was too loud of an option. I can close my eyes, but it will not make me disappear and the mere thought of added mystery is not appealing. Enough is snuff Snuff enough Enough snuff. "I'm here," I volunteer. He swiftly looks at my direction aiming his brow-knotted eyes at mines. I just got shot... Please, don't mistake the wide black eyes, please.

"I was shot... like I was shot with a diamond... a diamond bullet right through my forehead. And I thought: My God... the genius of that." Who's that kid? What am I doing in the Amazons? I don't have and don't intend to delve into delusions to fetch delusional answers.

I rest assured because I know that we, the former prey, just digested the horror: The hunter that tastes sweeter than Vodka, Caffeine and Sugar.

* Inspired by Francis Ford Coppola's "Apocylepse Now," 1979; with quotations from the script.