Author: TheBlazingOptimist PM
"They had always suppressed us." In the midst of the Anglo-Spanish war, a former bullfighting bull who is being used and abused as a member of the latter's troops, discovers what it truly means to be strong. One-shot originally written for an English assignment, inspired by Pablo Picasso's "Guernica". Please read and review!Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Angst/Drama - Words: 617 - Reviews: 1 - Published: 11-12-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3073726
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They had always suppressed us. To them, we were always just another tool in their arsenal, just another weapon to help them in the war. I understand fully the amount of death, injury and bloodshed that has been happening; I just don't know where I fit into it all.
Before I was drafted into the workforce, I was a regular Spanish bullfighting bull, trained and trusted to entertain the crowds. The most running I had ever done was a couple of laps around the arena. One of the generals even said that I didn't seem fit to enter. I wished I could've stood up and agreed with him, but that was impossible. Such are the lives of beings like us.
Now, I'm being herded onto the starting line, preparing for battle. I can see others like me; I am unsure whether they feel the same way I do.
A sea of shouts.
A thunder of angry hooves.
And we're off.
I charge headfirst into the enemies, and, as I expected them to do, they scattered at the sight of me.
At first, I try to imagine that I am back in the arena, with the shouts coming from cheering crowds, and the enemy being replaced by the flamboyant man. But alas, the sights stay largely the same. Caught up in my own coping mechanism, I don't see a man on horseback almost trample me. I manage to move out of his way, but it is a close shave.
"Come on, chico!" the armada general bellows at me as he passes. "Vamos, vamos!"
Snorting in an attempt to show my disapproval, I charge on, scaring horses, making them rear up and throw men off, as I have been told.
Though I get a small rush of adrenaline each time I eliminate a man and his steed, the feeling that I'm being overpowered not by the enemy, but by my own 'comrades' still lingers.
The general called me chico, Spanish for boy, instead of my own name. My birth name was something considerably long and rather handsome, but it had been stripped from me once I left my fighting profession.
And that, along with many other things, angers me, to the point that I enter a whole other zone, and begin reducing men and equines much more rapidly. I start forgetting about everything that has happened in the past, until a familiar voice interrupts through the chaos.
"Muy bien, chico! Keep going, boy!"
The general's words then are what push me over the edge.
I begin attacking the general. His horse rears and throws him off, giving a warning shout to me as he canters away. I can't exactly make it out, but by what I hear, he's seemingly telling me that I should be careful.
He has a point, but I decide to largely ignore it, properly beginning my assault.
"What are you doing, chico?!" he shouts."¿Qué haces?"
I don't dignify the monster with a reply, instead working on him until other members of the battalion pull me away. Even our rivals seem to have instated a temporary truce because of my uproar.
I see the sea of red covering his face. I'm happy, it's a shame I can't express it to him.
The other members split into groups, one group stroking me and trying to calm me down, the other trying their best to help the general.
As I'm led away, I hear him say two words.
I give a low grunt of approval at him finally calling me by name. As we are both pulled closer to almost certain death, at least we have one tiny shred of respect for each other.