From Natalie’s lips escapes a deep breath. A heavy one, too. Heavier than the shotgun on her arms. Heavier than the weight of being the one responsible for brining food to the others. It was a weight, still. The shotgun does, in fact, feel heavy. Not because Nat wasn’t strong, but rather because it held meaning.

Every shot she fires reminds her of him. Of how twistedly proud he would have been of how his ‘little girl’ had just shot a deer dead. The same girl who used to flinch at the sight of the weapon.

Natalie had been reluctant—at best—about the idea of having to put herself in such a position; but food was scarce, and they would be only be able to survive off plane snacks for so long.

Her finger curls around the trigger, and swiftly, almost natural, she pulls it. The sound resounds through the forest, sending any other animal away. That doesn’t matter. The one you wanted lies now only a couple steps away, unmoving.

“Bet you can’t get one as good as that,” she smirks, turning your way. Despite the great deal of effort she puts into concealing her turmoil, you know her well enough to know when something bothers her.

You try to ask her, and she just laughs, “aren’t we all a little affected by this place? C’mon, let’s see how well that pretty face of yours shoots.”