I'm in a kitchen.
It's long and narrow. The style is 70s: fake brick walls.
May aunt is kneading dough. She has two clumps: one is white and gelatinous, the other looks like regular bread dough.
I ask her what she's doing and she explains she's making bread with deer fat. The white, gelatinous clump is the deer fat. She's making deer fat bread from a deer my cousin (her son) recently hunted down.
I look to my left. I can see into the living room. The deer is sprawled out on the couch--its hind legs stretched back. It's breathing rapidly. I see a wound on its right side--the wound is oozing a dark red/brown fluid.
My cousin enters the living room (where I am now standing), rubbing lotion into his hands. I ask him, "How long before you can kill the deer?" I feel horribly sad for the beast.
"Soon, but I gotta' keep 'em alive for now. I get the best juice out of 'em when they're still alive."
Suddenly the deer lurches to its feet and hobbles toward me. It continues on into the kitchen. I feel very strongly that this deer needs to be put out of its misery.
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