Bearclaw Valley flat horror

With one strike, Abel coughed up whatever was left of the meat. It fell to the ground, shredded by teeth, snow clung to the bottom.
It was pure impulse that held him, if only for a moment. And perhaps it was that impulse that drove him to mutter defiantly; I don’t want to know about your bear.
That impulsivity, that suit of armor, was burnt to dust by searing regret. A painting of a brave wolf was cast aside as soon as the artist made his first stroke. Here returned the cowardly child, trembling and ready to piss himself at a moment’s notice.
I’m sorry, he whispered, I-I didn’t mean it.