bullfight

I couldn’t see ahead. All I could see was the rump of a bull. A big black rump, shaking with uncontrollable primal fear. I wasn’t allowed to see anything else. My senses were divided, very acute and completely numb. I couldn’t feel around me; my legs were chained, my stomach had been growling for so long that I had lost feeling of it. I couldn’t see, except for the rump of the bull in front. But I could hear, and I could smell. Very well. Too well. I could hear the snorts from the bulls, the fearful short snorts, punctuated by heavy breathing. I could hear wild noises ahead. I could hear anger and fear. I could hear these things. I could hear hysteric and maniacal laughter. I could smell the sweat in the tunnel. I could smell the fear. It reeked like the strong odour of dead bodies. I could smell blood. I could smell fresh dung and strong fresh urine.

There was nothing inside me that prepared me for this medley of feelings that were reaching my brain. There was nothing that offered a solution or a way out. There was nothing that even offered any solace. And worst of all, there was nothing that told me what exactly lay beyond the rump of the bull in front of me.

Fear began to pump in my veins with a new vigour, and my body began to perspire and shake with a demonic frenzy. What is happening? What is out there? Why do I smell blood and fear? Why do I hear laughter? These thoughts culled through my remaining sanity with brutal ease. I began to thrash in my chains, and froth at the mouth. I bellowed wildly, knowing somehow that I was dead.

“We have enough as it is. This one is causing too much trouble. He won’t be of any use outside. Kill him.”

“But…”

“Kill him.”

TCHAK.