I hear my mother's hoofbeats and twist my ear about, interested. She moves with grace and purpose, reminding me of a serpent I saw twine around and devour a mouse. I wish I could move like her. I sense there is a purpose in the swaying of her hips and the movement of her eyelashes, but the meaning is beyond me.
I am less interested in her pronouncement of my continued survival, and more consumed with my wonderings. I study the remains of the little feathered thing, thick liquids seeping from below the crack I made in its chest.
"What made it do that? Do all small things squeak and crunch like that?" I nudge the blood pooling around my hoof, unaware of the blood stain it is creating on my purple tinged nose. I like the smell, though. It is metallic, tangy and a bit sweet, like fresh grass when it rains. "I'd like to try it again, mother. May I?"
I don't nip mother. I learn quickly, and I have learned that she nips back. Instead I press my bloody nose to her side, all eagerness. What new fun will mother introduce me to?
A question I have been pondering springs to my lips.
"Why am I purple? You aren't. Was my father? Tell me about him."
My question evolved into a demand, a firm but quiet one. I don't doubt that I will be answered. I have all the misplaced confidence of my youth, but with a touch of quiet arrogance. I am smart, and I will only grow smarter.
the academic executioner