the price of freedom

Since I'm working on my next post, I'm going to give you a story of mine that I wrote some time ago. I consider it some of my best work (possibly the best thing I have ever written) and would like some feedback on it.
Enjoy!

***

The price of freedom

I pounce on the bunny.

I can feel it wriggling in my claws; it doesn’t know it’s already dead.

On the ground, the mother runs, desperate, making sure the rest of the litter is safe.

Meanwhile, I’ve already started eating.

It’s good.

A human would see my actions cruel and heartless.

Why kill an infant, they would say, when the mother is ready to sacrifice herself for her offspring?

But I, luckily, am not human.

I’m a falcon, and as such I can see the bigger picture.

Without the mother, the bunnies would all die in less than two weeks, prey of carnivores much bigger than me.

Instead, by eating the infants I make sure they die one at a time, and not all at once.

Besides, the mother can always have more kids.

And I’m hungry.

Experts know that as a rule of thumb falcons don’t eat land animals; we prefer doves, woodpeckers, and such.

But it’s winter, and in the Redwood national park food is scarce.

You know, people who say they like winter actually lie.

They don’t like winter.

They like watching a postcard of a snowy forest and pretend that’s winter.

But winter isn’t a postcard.

Winter is cold.

And hunger.

Not necessarily in the same order.

Even the bunny was starving.

It wasn’t a big meal.

I fly away, knowing that in less than two hours the hunger will be back.

I pray I find something to eat.

A woodpecker, a pigeon, anything.

Please….

***

Nine out of ten.

If you like, ninety percent.

It’s the percentage of predatory errors.

Its failures.

Nine times out of ten the prey does it, and survives.

And the predator? Waits.

Another attack.

Probably, another failure. Until…

But it’s not sure that the predator the tenth time, or the hundredth, can make it.

It’s not written anywhere.

A lot of predators lose even this last chance.

Because failures weight the wings, the muscles, the bones. The mind.

It’s been three days I hate the bunny.

Two days ago, there was a snowstorm, and I lost the rabbit family.

I feel like my stomach could rip out of my body and search for food by its own will.

I’m growing weaker.

Even if I could find prey, I doubt I would be able to catch it.

Fate seems to have given me a long, painful death.

How nice.

But…wait!

In the distance, collapsed on a boulder, I see a deer.

Dead.

I hurry towards the corpse, before someone else can take advantage of it.

It would be awful to see my salvation taken away from me right when it’s at hand.

I lay on his antlers and I look at the deer for a second: I wouldn’t want him to be sick, even if at this point it makes no difference.

You can count the ribs one by one.

The legs look like frail twigs.

It must have starved to death.

But it’s more than enough for me; even emaciated he weighs several time my own weight.

I’m about to pick the first piece of meat when something blocks me.

It’s a strange emotion I’m not able to identify at first.

Pride.

One of the few good things I learnt from humans; the will to not go below a certain point, to be strong in the face of hardship.

Why should I eat a lurid putrefying carcass, full of death and sickness, when I can feel the rush of adrenaline that hunting gives?

Because I’m hungry, that’s why.

Betraying all of my ideals, I start eating.

The body is still warm.

***

My recent encounter with death has made me think.

Once, I had a warm cage in which to sleep, and good meals twice a day.

Once, I had a master.

Why have I abandoned all this?

Why have I fled?

Out here, in the forest, I’m cold.

Out here, in the forest, I’m hungry.

When I escaped I was full of great ideals about freedom and indipendence.

Now I know they were crap.

What use is freedom, when you are dead?

While I ponder this great truth, I see a human below me, in the middle of a glade.

I come closer to see better; hunting season hasn’t started yet, and he doesn’t look like he’s carring a rifle, so I should be safe.

Man.

That’s my old master.

I’m sure he recognized me: I still have that stupid piece of plastic he attached to my leg.

While he shouts those strange sounds humans use to communicate, I think.

A wing flutter away, I have the opportunity to have back all those things I so longed for…

I’m about to dive into his arms, when I realize something.

Out here, I may be cold.

Out here, I may be hungry.

But if this is the price to pay to be free, I will pay it gladly.

Because a life without freedom isn’t worth being lived.