Sangre De Toro (Old Draft - Now Published!)

Chapter 38 - Whatever Doesn't Kill You

Even as Pepelito felt the effects of missing his final doses of painkillers, faint from lack of food and water, he worried for his beloved rescuer. Trapped in yet another hot, hard, dark, moving container with Chicero, he could still detect her scent. He couldn't see Rita, she hadn't spoken since he'd heard her in the ring, but he knew she was close. But then, that new horrible guy had hurt her, and they'd forced him and Chicero in here.

He knew she was alive.

But she was sick.

He panted, taking a breath of filthy air. Despite the holes at the top it was getting harder to breathe, and it stank. While the sun had gone down and it was cooler, it was still hot, with nothing to drink. They'd finished everything half an hour into their journey; whatever was in it had made him throw up twice. The thick rope tying his horns to the ceiling dug into his skin.

He pawed at the front of the box with a low growl; the side clanked and shifted slightly but it was locked and too heavy to move. Flicking his tail just hit it on the metal behind him. Chicero’s horn poked him in the side of his neck when he tried to nuzzle him. It was dark. Despite the panel dividing them, the squeeze was so tight that the other bull couldn't help occupying his personal space. Pepelito tossed his head and snorted. Chicero tried to lick his fur to say sorry.

It didn't help.

Sniffing the air, he realised someone had died violently in here; a human or one of his own kind, he didn't know. The blood had dried long ago but the metallic scent lingered in the air.

Were they going to kill Rita?

He pounded the metal floor with his hooves, stubbed one of them and bellowed in pain, fear and rage. He threw himself at the box, bashing the iron door with his horns. It didn't open. Why? Chicero nudged him, licking his scarred back as far as he could, horns just shy of touching him. This time he let himself be comforted, grateful for the gesture. Pepelito felt cooler and marginally calmer.

It gave him strength.

He thought about Silvio’s field where he felt so happy and loved, where he and Maribel could chew grass and sleep and chase each other around and play with beach balls and old tyres. Remembering the good times made his terror less overwhelming. Pepelito knew Chicero liked to swim; he'd swum in the river running through his field. Maybe his friend would like their little lake.

Some humans were good, Pepelito thought. Chicero didn't understand that, and maybe never would; humans terrified him. He couldn't imagine feeling anything like the affection Pepelito now did for Rita and Silvio. Ladron too had lived and died not knowing or believing any humans cared; as far as he'd been concerned they were all monsters.

Rita had gone out of her way to protect him. She had helped him get better. She’d shown him endless amounts of love and patience, played with him, given him food, water and shelter. She’d protected him from his torturers. Torturers she, for reasons he found impossible to understand, hated in a way alien to him, Chicero, Maribel, Ladron and even Degolladora.

The way only humans could.

Her tone of voice alone had told him everything. Rather than calling Castella 'boss', 'señor' or 'maestro' in a sycophantic tone, Rita had spat out other words in pure and absolute despisement.

'Maldito cobarde.'

'Escoria.'

'Hijo de puta.'

He had to help her, like she'd helped him.

He only really knew one way.

His horns and feet were the only weapons he had, or knew how to use. His abusers had tried so hard to cripple him, making even thinking of fighting back unbearable. The twinges he got when he raised his head too quickly were painful reminders of their brutality. His awkwardness and clumsiness, the way he so frequently misjudged his surroundings, meant he could never forget what they had done. Only now was he starting to understand everything they'd stolen from him, the life they hadn't let him live.

At the farm he'd grown up on, when he'd had tussles with other young bulls, the sparring matches ended amicably and they made up without either getting seriously injured. He'd had fights, sure, he'd been irritated, but never set about to hurt anyone, not like they did; even when he'd charged at that horse he was trying to make it all stop. He'd never tortured anyone or starved them or locked them up. Such things were beyond him in every way.

His only crime was being a bull.

He was bigger than them. He still had his horns, and the strength the bullfighters had literally tried to bleed away. He had the caring nature their warped ideas of ‘bravery’ encouraged them to beat out of him.

Pepelito knew he scared these people. Behind their cruelty hid weakness and fear.  

But he was a long way from overcoming his own terror. The vehicle sped up towards its unknown destination, flinging him around and bruising his sides. His eyes and mouth were dripping. He was so hungry. Chicero put the tip of his nose against his back. Pepelito relaxed, glad he was not alone, that he and Chicero were looking out for each other.

He’d do the same for Rita. She needed him too.

He had to make it stop.

And he would.

AN: Sorry this one is a bit short and uneventful compared with the last! But I have to show him losing his fear ❤️ Also, I found out it was international anti-bullfighting day a couple days ago. ❤️

Next scene is gonna take a bit longer :)