Post by Swede on Oct 10, 2010 18:28:47 GMT -5
Name: Matanza
Age: 6 years
Breed: Andalusian
Height: 16.1 hh
Colour: Buckskin
Eye Colour: Amber gold
Gender: Stallion
Markings: Left hind sock, dozens of scars
History:
I am so young and feel so free
I’ve never tasted misery
Wait, where are you taking me?
This isn’t where I ought to be
Every night I cry for mercy
But you never hear my soliloquy
I can’t do what you ask of me.
Alright! Okay! I’ve succumbed, finally
It’s this, I guess, or die slowly
Since you have ignored my plea
I’ll act out your brutality
I’m the weapon of your cruelty.
It seems that I am only worthy
When I go on this killing spree
You shower me with gold and glory
Yet you cannot seem to see
Your praise gives me such agony
All my terror stems from thee
I wonder… have you broken me?
The colt cost him many bloody coins. But it was worth it; this was to be his new champion. The buckskin was of a breed unusual to the area, tall and muscular, larger than the native stallions even at his mere two years of age. A rope was cast about his neck, and he was led away from the pasture where he had been kept since birth. A poor man’s horse, now; but soon, soon he would be rich again. He was certain that this particular investment would be lucrative.
Time. It passed, as it tends to do. And in that time, Matanza learned something. He learned what it is to fear. He had seen humans before; they were not like this. This was a monster. The stench of blood nestled in the folds of his clothing, and a cold hunger shone in his eyes. The snarling voice terrified the young stallion even more than the fist that struck his sensitive muzzle.
He was four years old. In all his life, he had seen no other horse but his mother; and that was long ago. But their scent lingered upon his master, the predator, and Matanza could only wonder what it meant. Those mysterious equine smells- his prey? Or his accomplices?
The universe ticked on, and Matanza learned a new lesson. He learned to obey. The stallion was thrust into a small, round pen with high gates, surrounding by shouting humans. He was not alone; there was a female, whose scent confused and entranced him, and a male, who watched him hesitantly. The pandemonium of the crowd had both stallions agitated; both coveted the mare, but were too bewildered to know what to do. Matanza backed up against the fence panels, deciding that standing down was the best choice. But then, something, some awful pain, ripped through his hip and up his spine. With a sharp cry, he darted away, pinning his ears. The other stallion misunderstood the motion, and attacked, sinking his teeth deep into the buckskin’s withers. Matanza understood now. His only purpose in here was to fight. Bucking, he tore himself away from his attacker, sprinting around the outer edge as his flanks were bitten repeatedly. After a few moments, the stranger was satisfied, and let him be; but the humans roared in anger. In the same instant that the Andalusian halted, the cattle prod was shoved roughly against his neck. He stumbled backwards, and was startled by a loud clanging noise behind him. His sides lathered with nervous sweat and specks of foam flying from his lips, Matanza again darted away; but a rope snagged his fetlock and threw him to the ground. The other stallion, dangerously confused and far more aggressive, charged at him. At last, Matanza gave in; he rolled to his hooves, kicking off the rope as it loosened, and met the challenging stallion in a high rear, snaking his head forward to dig his teeth into hot flesh. For twenty minutes, the horses battled without pause. And then, for no discernible reason, the fighters were separated. Matanza trembled with exhaustion, too tired to even react when stinging fluids were dabbed into his open, bleeding wounds. So this was why the master always smelled like death.
The Earth continued its endless rotations. Matanza quickly lost count of his scars. But now, he knew how to play the game; he knew what was expected. His superior stature, if used correctly, could crush these smaller local stallions. The master watched greedily as his investment began to pay off. But he had not yet hit the goldmine he was waiting for; only now would the blood money tumble into his outstretched hands, now that the stallion obeyed. But class is still in session.
This fight was not like the others. Matanza continued to score hits as he waited for the humans to rope their stallions in; but nothing happened. Confused, he ceased battle, stepping back to give the master his opportunity. The master became infuriated; once more, the predator emerged. Had Matanza forgotten? The human ran into the pen, disregarding the danger of coming between two stallions, and attacked his prize horse, slashing his side with a hunting knife. No, Matanza had not forgotten. With a vicious scream, he channelled his anger towards the only acceptable target. The other stallion stood no chance. And thus, Matanza learned to kill.
The buckskin stallion became a bringer of death; the master became a very rich man. Everything went exactly as he had planned. Only one thing bothered him- the mares. In battles to the death, victorious stallions were given their time with the terrified mare. But Matanza never touched them. Instead, he waited, panting and bloody, by the gate, waiting for the master to lead him back to another sleepless night. But did it matter? As long as he slaughtered his opponents, the master was satisfied. In the fighting pen, the buckskin horse was a monster, mercilessly tearing his victims to pieces; thus the audience often wondered at his disinterest in the mares. Matanza could not explain it himself, not in words at least. It was just… an emotion, one he could not describe. He could not cause them the pain that the other stallions felt was their just reward.
He quickly ran his eyes over his adversary; more scars marred that scarlet coat than even his own. This chestnut stallion was nothing to take lightly. Matanza could see the bloodlust in the stud’s eyes. This one genuinely enjoyed killing.
Never before had he fought so long and so hard. Never before had he come so close to death, or felt such a desperation to survive. But survive he did, barely. In a stroke of luck, he managed to close his jaws around the chestnut’s throat, tearing arteries and crushing his windpipe. And then, when the enemy lay dead at his hooves, he too sank to the ground, and was unceremoniously dragged away. The master was upset; but he was willing to try healing the horse, considering the potential cash he could generate in the future. The master’s greed had been Matanza’s downfall; but now, ironically, it would be his salvation- if one could call it that. Matanza would not have minded a peaceful death. Pain did not matter; so long as he could drift away without the terror of stallions ripping at his hide, he was fine with dying in a cradle of agony. But no, the master worked stubbornly, mending cracked ribs, disinfecting festering cuts, caring for battered muscles.
Matanza recovered. Hay was expensive in this season, so he was put into a small paddock to nibble what weeds he could find there. He knew that he would find himself back in the killing pen; tomorrow, next week, who knew? It would be soon. And he knew that he never wanted to set hoof in there again. In a rare stroke of initiative, the stallion reared, boxing at the fence panels. They were solid, made of metal, and he could not break them no matter how he tried. The master heard the noise, and ran out, shouting furiously. He threw upon the gate, waving the knife which he always carried and grabbing at the stallion’s rope halter. But Matanza was desperate now; he did not flinch away, but charged towards his greatest enemy, running over the human. The knife blade streaked across his chest, splashing blood upon the dusty earth; but the gate was open.
Suddenly, Matanza learned what it meant to be free.
But is that where the story ends? Is it just a doubtful life ahead, filled with haunted memories? The art of equine socialization is a mystery to him; the last kind word he ever heard was his mother’s sweet goodbye as he was taken away. Can he learn what it is to not be despairingly lonely, as he has always been? Can he even learn to love… to love a dear friend; to love a mare; maybe to even love himself. Or perhaps it is too late. Perhaps Matanza's spirit has already been broken.
Only in the land of Sunshine River can such questions ever be answered.
