My Earliest Memory

I was in a museum. I suppose there were many displays of animals mounted or posed in their realistic forms to show them as they appeared in their natural environment. However, I recall only one display. It is the one that has stayed forever emblazoned on my young impressionistic mind. There in front of me they stood, in all their bloody glory: two wild animals. One (I cannot recall now what animal it was, only that it had hold of its victim’s throat.) Perhaps it was a wolf; maybe a wild boor. What matters most is that it was clearly the aggressor and it was the victor over the other animal in its natural habitat. The other, I am sure, was a deer, a poor innocent deer. Though its eye sockets were now filled with dark marbles, I could imagine in those eyes, terror beyond words. Whoever had put together this display had done a most realistic job. Heavy blood matted the neck of the deer and flowed down its body. Blood also gushed forth from the attacking beast’s mouth. I do not know what thoughts were running through my mind as I beheld this scene. I only remember standing there utterly transfixed. Years later, I told my mother that my earliest childhood memory had been of two animals posed in struggle at a museum. So much time had passed, I was not even sure if maybe it had not been just a dream. My mother confirmed for me that I had indeed witnessed it and that it took place when I was around three years old. She then told how I had stood in front of the display for many minutes, perhaps fifteen, just staring and staring at it. She said that she and my dad could not tear me away from it, and they finally had to drag me away. Why that is my first memory I do not know. Perhaps because it was my first visual impression of violence. I wish I could remember what went through my mind as I gazed on it. Later in life, I was to witness acts of violence in the “real world” which greatly disturbed me, particularly those acts of cruelty involving man against man. However, I am someone who is able to step outside myself and view things in an analytical and detached way. I think this makes me sometimes misread by the "too feeling crowd." Furthermore, I always find myself strangely titillated by scenes of the macabre in horror movies. I do not enjoy gore. But I very much enjoy a good psychological thriller. Just something about me. I don’t know what it means. And I have no room to explore it here! For the Contest of Leighann Anderson: Sea of Words