Heart and Soul (rewrite)

Chapter Twenty

I followed the red headed man out of the lake, and stood beside him as he loaded what he called a boat into the back of his truck. Then, he stepped into the vehicle and drove at a crawl, holding my reins through the window. I followed, head down, exhausted. I vowed to never swim again. The slow walk allowed me to dry off, but the chill in the air sent shivers down my spine. We rolled to a stop outside a building with black and white cars in the parking lot, and Red Head opened the door.

"Alright, horse. I'll be right back. Just... stay... I think..."

With that the man looped my reins around his rear view mirror and vanished inside. I looked around me, at the strange cars, at the wooden doors, at the road beside me, the woods ahead of me. Then, an engine from the house across the street backfired, and I spooked suddenly. I jerked away from the car, taking the mirror with me, and galloped towards the woods, the dragging piece of plastic only serving to terrify me more. Ahead of me, a tree had fallen, and leaned against its neighbor, thrusting dead branches in the air as if waving one last time at the sun. It was about sixty feet long, four feet tall, and six feet wide. A real giant. And it was in my way. Scraping together what little energy I had left like a homeless man scrapes together his loose change at the end of the day, I planted my forefeet, pushed off with my hind legs, and jumped.

I would have made it. The ground was only a foot from my hooves, and my hind legs had arced well into the sky, with inches to spare. It was the mirror. That damn mirror. It lodged itself into one of the branches and got stuck. The force of the sudden jolt whipped my head around, catching the bit so hard I grunted, and throwing my hind end out and over the tree. My muzzle smashed into the massive log, and a trickle of blood slid out of my flared nostrils. I couldn't believe it. I had been so close. I leaned against the bridle, trying to tear myself free. I shook my head back and forth, I tilted it, struck at it with my hooves like the wild stallions used to do, until finally, the bridle popped off. Just like that, I was free. Except, of course, the saddle.

I wandered for days after I ditched my bridle, until the dried sweat under my saddle pad began to itch and burn, and the saddle pressed through the thin cotton and opened a sore, oozing wound on my withers. I ached, I was stiff, and hunger roiled in my stomach. But worst of all, I was forgetting again. Mollie's face had faded to a vague shape. Although she wasn't the same to me as the Redhead girl, so far away in my memories, Mollie still meant a lot to me, and I wasn't ready to lose her. But, day by day, her face became dimmer, the feel of her soft legs against my sides and gentle hands on my bit, urging me into a frame faded, until all I left was the desperation I felt, the pain in my body, and the ground beneath my feet.

After what felt like forever, but was no more than two weeks, I stumbled upon a rundown farm. A trough standing outside the barn was filled with rainwater, and I dipped my muzzle in, thankful for even this warm, stale water. Suddenly, someone stood beside me, and I jumped away, snorting. An old man, so old, in fact, he seemed barely able to stand, was at the trough, looking at me. He held out a hand. I cautiously sniffed it. It smelled of grease and machines and oil, of leather and hard work and many, many years. And dog. It smelled like dog. I pressed my muzzle into his hand, my eyes begging.

Take this saddle off, please.

He patted my nose, and promised to return. Then, he heaved the old doors open on the equally old barn, and returned with a rope. Throwing it over my neck, he led me into the dark, dusty building and put me in a stall, that was no more than wooden slats nailed haphazardly to support beams. The floor was wood, and none too stable, by my judgements, for as soon as I stepped on it the boards grunted and bowed slightly under my weight. The old man heaved my saddle off, and took one look at the sore before muttering to himself and vanishing, saddle and all, in the dark recesses of the barn. I glanced around me, at the leather harnesses hanging on racks, so dusty they seemed as if they were older than the man himself. Bales of straw and loose hay littered the floor, and the boards of a loft reared up above my head. Stalls similar to mine were in a row, but as far as I could tell, I was the only animal here. The man returned with a paste, which he smeared on my sore, and a flake of hay. Then, he bedded my stall by throwing loose straw around, raising quite the dust storm in the process. He vanished again, and returned this time with a metal bucket and sponge. With painstaking, devoted care, the man sponged me off with shaking hands, refilled the bucket, and left it for me to drink.

As I watched him close the door behind him, sending a cloud of dust billowing into the air, I decided this may not be this bad.

After about a week, I could no longer breathe.