Desk, Button, Elephant, Walk

He took aim and ran.
He ran hard, picking up more and more speed.
That Voice had set him off, that cigar soaked growl.
He knew who that Voice was and what that Voice, had done.
It had been years back, but it was still fresh in his memory.

'Over there!' The Voice had growled.
Then there had been loud noises.
Dust.
The sound of chainsaws.
The sound of a diesel engine fading into the distance.
Silence.

He'd done his best to hide, however his mother hadn't been so quick. Maybe this was intentionally, he'd thought later on. Maybe it was motherly instinct.
Eitherway, the result was the same.
He stepped from behind the tree he was huddled behind and began to walk towards her slowly.
She lay dust-covered, blood-stained.
Lifeless.
He knew she was gone. Knew what had been done. He was only a child but the realisation was instant. He lay by her body for days. Sobbing, not eating, not drinking. Grieving.
Not only had the Voice killed her, but they'd stolen part of her.
By now she was probably a button on a fancy blouse, or a paperweight on a desktop.
Ivory commanded high prices on the black market.

That was then.

Now, his eyes burnt with rage, fanned by years of brooding, of waiting, of hating.
The Voice saw him, with plenty of time and opened fire.
The shots struck him hard, but he kept running.
There was little distance now between him and the Voice.
As the Voice struggled to reload, the elephant began to fade.
His eyes drooped, his heart slowed, but his momentum remained, ploughing him though the Voice's huddled body.
From the ground he opened an eye and looked down his trunk at the sight before him.
Again, there was blood.
The Voice lay, gnarled and twisted, impaled on a tusk.
Again there was dust.
His eyes darkened more as the dust settled on them.
Again there was silence.