Fiery desperation

She looked for her mother's old hunting weapon. The gun merely for self-defense, she told herself. Violence would be beneath her, she said. But hunting came naturally to her; her mother was a top class huntswoman. She forced it away, claiming vehemently it was not right. Her mother would plead with her to come help slay some food. She never gave in. As a child, adolescent or an adult. Her mother eventually stopped asking.
This changed after her first victory over a life; bitter-sweet though it was. The hunt came out of a need for food. The chase sent adrenaline pumping through her; the kill tasted better than ever; a happiness crept into her bedridden mother's wrinkled face.
It didn't seem worth it.
Each time she went on a hunt, she was cloaked in hues of red. A blend of fear and anger. Not the rush her mother spoke of. Never a sense of achievement. Just a fiery desperation to survive.