The killing of a sacred deer

At some point, it was bound to happen, long shifts, late nights, tired eyes. I’d seen the deer before, fallow and roe, bolt across the road in front of me on my way home from work. Out of the woods, one, two, like ghosts, then unexpectedly, the expected third, but I’d never hit one until then.

I remember the moment exactly, the motionless violence. Illuminated in headlights, frozen in the night, a grainy sepia print on my mind. I can still hear myself yell out, the sense of shock, the rushing of the trees, a stone cold thump on the car wing.

At the time, on that dark road, after a long day in the kitchen, I was so shaken up by the impact and so unnerved by my feelings, I didn’t actually stop the car. I drove on, into the darkness, my mind racing with the brutality and sadness of it all. I deeply regretted not stopping. All the way home I panicked. What if I hadn’t killed the deer? Is it Injured, dying somewhere in the bracken? I should have pulled over to make sure the deer was dead.