Sarah Blakley-Cartwright

Peter had stolen a knife. We were seven years old, and we'd caught a rabbit in a trap. We looked at each other darkly, a look I'll never forget, one of a shared savage thrill, like young wolves taking down their first kill.

A spill of blood issued from the rabbits neck, a quick red streak across pristine white fur, slow enough to be cruel. I hadn't cut deep enough. Had I wanted to spare its life or prolong its misery? I've never wanted to know the answer.

Sarah Blakley-Cartwright, Red Riding Hood
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Red Riding Hood Red Riding Hood by Sarah Blakley-Cartwright
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