Heart and Soul (rewrite)

Chapter Three

My second chance came three days later. The soreness had eased out of my muscles and I was back to feeling good.

I was running in a half mile dirt race, in a field of ten competitors. As usual, all mares. I was also running against PerfectParadox, so far the most successful over the week of races. This time I was seven, with a bright orange saddle pad. We paraded around the paddock, my jockey was boosted up after the trumpet, and as usual I refused to load.

When they finally shoved me into the gates I looked beside me. PerfectParadox stood beside me and nickered to me. I nickered back. My jockey's whip connected with my hind quarters at the same time the gates flew open. I erupted forward, and to my delight I was alone on the track. Not boxed in, not forced to shorten my stride. My legs ate up the ground, and my jockey even ran his hand down my mane. Then Paradox came galloping up on the outside. She met my eye, and I paused for a moment, startled, and lost my stride. My jockey's hand dropped to whip me again, and I jumped sideways. The cheap plastic rail fell away beneath me and I landed hard. My jockey rolled away and lay face down, immobile. There was a horse on the ground behind me, thrashing. She had spooked and slammed into the fence as well, but she wasn't nearly as lucky. The pole sprouted from her chest, red splattering up the white plastic. Within seconds on track vets were swarming around her, and within minutes she was on the ground, a cloth tied around her eyes. She wasn't moving anymore.

I felt sick to my stomach. Medics rushed to my jockey, lifted his limp hand, then shook their heads at each other and carried him away.

I was the only survivor. Neither jockey had survived the fall, and the mare had been euthanized on the track. I escaped with several lacerations and a deep puncture on my side. I was shipped home as soon as the bleeding was under control. This time, however, I was alone. I spent six hours in lonely, painful silence, my hay untouched beside me.

The grooms cared for my injuries until they healed over, and a scar left a streak of white on my chestnut shoulder. I never forgot, though. The injuries had subsided, but the memories remained painfully fresh. I had been responsible for the death of three. Suddenly, racing didn't seem so fun.

About a month after I was proclaimed healed a trailer pulled up, and I was loaded. As the trailer began to pull away, I saw Blue. He was being led from his stall, graceful and poised as ever. I screamed to him. All I wanted was to play with him in the fields again, playfully tug his mane or ears. He whinnied back, and as the trailer pulled away he lifted his forelegs from the ground, and tore his lead rope from the groom's hand. Then he was beside the trailer, trotting, trying to reach his muzzle through the small window, to touch my nose with his one last time. I suppose we both felt that same poised hammer of finality. We both realized we may never see each other again. Then there was a fence. He stopped, staring at me, as the groom picked up his lead rope. He whinnied at me one last time. I stared at him until he vanished in a cloud of dust, and promised myself I would never forget. Already I could feel a void beside me, in the same seventeen hand shape as Blue.

There was a gelding beside me, a worn down chestnut with a star like mine. He looked at me with dull eyes and I nudged him.

"Everything will be okay." I nickered, more for myself than him.

He stared at me. "You've never been..."

"What?"

"Humans make something called money off of us. They use that money to survive. It's food for them. When they race us, and we win, they get money. If you're here, then you obviously haven't won much."

"I'm a fantastic racer!" I snorted, but at the same time my scar ached, and I remembered.

"Sure, and my sire's Zenyatta. When you can't earn enough money for humans they sell you, and other people make money off of you. They race you until you can't run. And that's the end of it. You die a slow and horrible death and humans make money. It's what a race horse does."

We rode the rest of the three hours in silence, and were joined by several more horses. Three stallions, four mares, me, and the gelding. I'd come to call him Flax, as his coat resembled the flax seed in my grain.

After a three hour ride we were unloaded at a race track, where strange grooms took me away. I spent a day there before I ran. They fed me different grain that unsettled my stomach, and did a poor job when they cleaned my stall.

For the race I pulled number one, a blue saddle cloth. There was no parade in the paddock before the race, we were simply loaded. I resisted the gates, but was forcibly pushed in.

They opened with the shrill ring of a bell. I rushed forward, desperate to get in front, to not hurt anyone. I soon let horses pass me, realizing if they were in front of me I couldn't hurt them. My jockey beat me heavily but I stayed at my pace. I finished fifth.

At the end of the race a man smelling heavily of alcohol roughly seized my bridle.

"She's mine now, jocco. Get off."

The man dismounted and shook his head.

"Good luck with this mare. She has one speed, and that's slow."

"We'll see." The man replied simply, locking eyes with me. His beady glance held mine for only a second before it shifted away again. He unsettled me even more than the strange feed, and as he led me away I couldn't help but balk, leaning against his weight, of which there was no shortage. He took the end of the reins and beat me savagely with the buckle until I moved, sore and hurting.

There would be a lot of that in the years to come.