Suicide Season by Yolanda Olson

It’s a vicious cycle.

Stop, start. Stop, start.

We move when the hunt has ended in one place, only to begin again.

It has nothing to do with the warmth of spring and summer or the chill of autumn and winter. Our seasons are measured by something else entirely. And while I sometimes wonder if he’ll ever tire of his god games, I also know that he enjoys it far too much to ever stop.

Hunger is never an issue for us, and because of that, what we are isn’t apparent. I prefer animals, and so does he in a roundabout way. It’s how he sees humans—as animals that lack the common instinct to survive when presented with something beautiful.

As we leave our current home for the next, I wonder what time has in store for us. Whatever it may be, as long as we’re by each other’s sides, nothing else will matter.

We’ve already gone to the end.

Now it’s time for the cycle to repeat itself.