Calamity

2

(Wyoming, 1872)

The next year of my life was a blur of pain and suffering.

After the men tore me from my mother, they hitched me behind a splintering wooden cart that two elderly horses were pulling, and forced me to run in the blistering Wyoming summer heat.  I don't remember how long I ran for, it may have been hours, perhaps days. All I remember are the drops of frothy sweat that ran like oil off my coat, and the excruciating pain that ran up and down my ligaments and bones. If I ever faltered, or slowed, they would lay the whip on with such force it cut through the sensitive skin of my flanks.

Every half hour or so they would allow a break, which I savoured with grace. During these times, the flies would swarm the bloody gashes in my sides, and I would chat with the old horses pulling the decaying wooden beer cart. I would tell them my experience with men, and in exchange, they would tell me theirs. The things they told me were nothing short of ghastly.

I had finally caught up to the side of the wagon, the soft rope hooked to the back of it now jerking against my raw, aching nose. It was starting to rub off a patch of hair on the dip of my nose, sawing back and forth with every hesitant step I took.

An abrupt wave of nausea washed over me, my head began to spin, my vision wavered, sending my weary bones to the hoof imprinted ground. The wagon lurched back from my immense weight, and for a split second, a tide of relief washed over me.

As the sticks and stones on the unkept trail surged through my skin, I was convinced that the pain of life was gone, my pathetic, sad story was over. It was either that, or my now heaving sides were numb with pain. My body was frozen, I could hear the screams of the men and other horses. My eyes were lined with a ring of white, my teeth bared with pain.

Suddenly, everything came to a screeching halt. My right side was lavish in blood, trickling slowly but heavily onto the dust coated ground. Drip, drop, drip, drop, my crimson red blood now carpeting the earths crust. I felt an unpleasant yank come upon my head, and a rough, unsettling voice scream slurs into my ear.

Before I knew it, I was somehow hoisted into the back cart of the wagon, my legs splayed out in front of my distressed body. I watched the Wyoming countryside stretch out for miles beyond me, and for it being July, the hottest month of the year, it was surprisingly green. It was a distinct field of clover green, every so often a tree spearing the view. The sky began to warp into a brilliant array of colours. A rich, blood red, had stained over the pearly sun and the once deep blue afternoon sky. It was complimented by an assortment of pink, purple, and orange tufts of the fresh, milky sky.

The wheels of the wagon groaned and creaked, and the man in the passenger seat puffed on his pipe. The birds sung lightheartedly in the willow trees, its draping limps hanging down and enveloping the family of American Dippers. Jealousy flooded over me like waves, how spiteful, for one to have peace, and liberty, and for another to be deprived of that same thing.

I turn my heavy head away, rolling my eyes back into my head. One single, lonely star had slipped out of the dark abyss, and I wished upon it.

To have peace, for once in my life.