~fox execution~ 300 words comp entry

I stand atop the hill, admiring the rust colours of the dying bracken as I begin painting on the new bridal-way marker on the gatepost. The sun was just setting, blanketing half the hill in shadows.

A fox slinks, unheeded, from the midst of the bracken into the last light of day, his orange fur blending in beautifully with the browns of the bracken. It flinches as I do when the hunters horn echoes around the valley, the baying of hounds not far behind.

My eyes catch the white around the foxes neck, and I look on to see evenly spaced ribs. I still have a ham sandwich from lunch, but do I give it to an obviously starving fox that might die today anyway? If I give it to him he probably wont steal food tonight, but allows him to live long enough to steal again tomorrow. If I decide to leave him I'll know that I have conformed with what society expects, but will ravage my emotional well being.

The fox starts to pant, bright pink tongue lolling, amber eyes fixed on mine, as if awaiting my decision. As if he knows my inner conflict and the possible reward. As if he's done this before.

It whines. It covers its muzzle with its paws, or at least tries to. Only then does it cross my mind that he's not here through choice. There's blood splattered on his orange coat from where the trap broke the skin around the ankle.

It whimpers again, and I make up my mind to help it. As I open the gate four foxhounds bound out and render my theological pondering for nought. The fight was over in seconds, but the way the blood spewed from the tattered foxes neck will haunt me forever.