The sun burned low on the horizon, casting long, jagged shadows across the endless stretch of the savanna. My fingers tightened around the worn leather grip of my rifle, my breath slow and measured. Across the golden grasses, a figure stood still—a gazelle, its eyes locked onto mine.
I exhaled. The world around me quieted, the rustling wind and distant cries of birds fading into silence. My finger brushed the trigger.
The gazelle flicked its ears. It took a step back. Then another.
I fired.
The bullet sliced through the air, but the creature was already gone, vanishing between the swaying grasses. I cursed under my breath and ran after it, my boots sinking into the dry earth. I had been hunting this animal for as long as I could remember. It always eluded me, slipping away like a shadow in my mind, like a ghost.
I found its hoofprints in the dirt and followed them. Days passed, though it felt like mere moments. My canteen ran dry. My body ached. The sun rose and fell, but I pressed forward. The gazelle was always just out of reach, always watching. When I closed my eyes, I saw its dark gaze, calm, knowing. I whispered to myself, to no one, to the wind:
I will catch it this time.
I woke to the sound of rustling. My body ached from the cold hard ground, the rifle heavy in my grip. Across from me, standing between the dying embers of my fire, was the gazelle.
I raised my gun in an instant, my breath hitching. But I did not fire. My fingers trembled. The animal did not run. It watched me.
“Why?” I whispered.
The gazelle blinked. Its lips curled ever so slightly, as if it could smile.
Then, it turned and walked away.
Something inside me shattered. I dropped my gun and chased it. Branches tore at my skin, my lungs burned, but I did not stop. I could not stop.
The chase went on. Forever, it seemed. I lost track of the days, the months, the years. My face grew hollow, my body thinner, my mind splintered. The gazelle remained unchanged. It never grew tired, never faltered. It waited for me, always watching, always one step ahead.
One night, I awoke in my bed.
I sat up sharply, gasping for breath. My walls were lined with maps, notes, drawings of the gazelle, years of obsession scrawled in frantic ink. My hands were clean—too clean. No rifle. No dirt under my nails. No scars from the chase.
Was it real?
I stumbled to the window. The city lights flickered in the dark. No savanna. No wilderness. Just an endless stretch of concrete and steel.
I turned back. My room felt foreign. Unfamiliar. But as I moved toward my desk, my breath caught in my throat.
There, standing in the doorway, was the gazelle.
It watched me.
My fingers twitched toward a weapon that was not there.
“You don’t exist,” I whispered, voice hoarse, dry.
The gazelle tilted its head.
Do you? it seemed to ask.
The walls around me wavered, the city outside dissolving into endless grasslands once more. My hands gripped the rifle, my feet steady against the cracked earth.
The gazelle turned and ran.
And I followed.
I always followed.
The gazelle seems to be a shadow of his past or a hallucination, maybe something disturbs him, maybe not having been able to hunt it torments him, who knows what is going through his mind? 👀
Thank you very much for sharing in our avernus, I recommend you to always put the sources of the images to avoid inconveniences 👻
Or maybe its a purpose for the hunter to continue life...
thanks for reading the story anyway :),
yes, you're right, I forgot to mention the images are generated using Dall-e this time.
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