I hate the hunt

They call it the hunt like it’s some honorable rite. They think I was made for it. But I hate it. I hate the silence before the chase, the breathless stillness, the moment instinct takes over and I become exactly what everyone fears.

There’s no thrill for me. No joy. Only the cold certainty that I’ll catch whatever I pursue. I’m too good at this, and that’s the part that sickens me the precision, the inevitability. I don’t hunt because I want to. I hunt because I have to.

And every time I swear I’ll stop. I’ll walk away. But I never do.
I finish what I start… and that’s the curse