Lamentation

The roar of the crowd is deafening, pulsing all around me. I cannot see them. These four crudely built wooden walls are all I can see, but I know they are out there; I can smell them, feel their hunger. I have never been here before, but I know it is not a good place. It is so hot in here, and it smells of fear and hopelessness and old blood. My eyes bulge. I desperately search for a way out; there is none. I am scared.

My breath billows in the dim light; only snatches of it find their way through the thin openings that line the top of my box. The walls press in on my hips, scratching them uncomfortably. I press my body against them, trying to push them away from me, but I am not strong enough. I always thought of myself as a strong one, the strongest of my family, but I have had little food lately, and I cannot sleep. I shift my legs a bit, trying to find a more comfortable position, but it is quite impossible, so I stand still.

I miss my family so much; why was I taken from them? Closing my eyes, I can almost believe I am standing on grass again, a cool breeze against my skin, and surrounded by fields of delicious flowers to graze on. Whatever direction I look in, I can see my family happily grazing together, tails swishing away those pesky flies. The young ones frolic about, kicking their legs up and racing around the grown ones, who always act annoyed, but I know they secretly love those little ones and their antics. I am not much older than them, so I can still remember what it felt like to have that much energy. Watching them makes me feel content, complete. They are my family, all of them, and there was nowhere else I wanted to be.

I cannot remember much. It happened so quickly, and to be honest, it was so frightening that I do not want to remember it. I remember the owners of the farm approached me. They tied a rope around my neck, and when I dug my hooves in the soil and snorted to protest, something poked me from behind. It hurt so much and I had no choice but to move forward into a box. They shut me in, and I was so scared. I couldn’t see my family anymore, but I could hear them calling for me, lamenting my sudden absence. I tried to call back, begging them to help me, but before they could, the box rumbled, and then it began to move. The more it moved, the fainter the smells of my family and home became, and before long I could not smell them at all. I stomped my feet as hard as I could, but the box was small, and I grew tired from fear and loneliness, and soon I could not bother to move at all.

Many hands, rough, unkind hands prodded and shoved me after that. They slapped me, hit and pushed me, and every time I tried to protest, their hands became even more unkind. I was much bigger than them, but soon I learned they were in charge here, and to them was I nothing, so that is what I became. I grew docile, doing what I could to appease them, to avoid their hurtful hands and sticks. But they seemed to not like that. When I cowered, they shouted; if I turned away from them, they poked me with sticks that stung like a thousand wasps. It made me angry, to be treated in such a way. The more they touched me, the more I wanted to make them stop. The first time I charged them, they backed away in terror. I liked that, so I did it again, snorting and tossing my head. Then they laughed and one poked me from behind again, and they laughed some more. So, it was a game for them. I could play too, or at least I thought I could. I was a strong bull, and they were weak little humans.

I am not as strong as I once thought. Their game went on for some time, and in the end, I lost. I am still not sure what the point was, but I learned this: they are cruel, and they want me mad. But I am not mad, not anymore. There is no strength left in me to be mad; all I feel is an emptiness inside me, a longing for what I used to know. My flanks quiver, my horns scrape grooves into the ceiling of my box. After all this time being here, I still do not know what these horrible humans want from me. The blood in this box fills my nose, and I can guess that whatever it is they have planned, I was not the first to endure it.

The pounding of feet shakes me from my thoughts, and shivers run across my broad shoulders and down my back. I can hear voices above me, surrounding me. Suddenly, their stinging sticks are thrust into the thin openings at the top of my box, poking me all over. I scream and buck as much as I can in my small confined space. They laugh and cheer, and I can hear the crowd roar louder with each of my screams. This is a game for them too, my fear, my rage. I can feel the rage bubble up in my chest, clouding my vision. I do not like this feeling, but I cannot stop it from rising and spreading like an illness. I want out of this box; I want to see my assailants and make them stop. This is what they want; why should I not give in and deliver? The pokers leave, but the pain remains, ebbing in my skin. Everything hurts, but the rage numbs me.

A thin wisp of air finds its way into my box, and I stop shifting angrily from hoof to hoof. It does not smell good, not at all, but it reminds me of what I have lost. My heartbeat slows, my breath calms. I can still remember the grass, the flowers, the young calves galloping and kicking. My stomach clenches, and I hang my head. The anger is gone again; all I feel is loneliness and an ache that runs deeper than the stinging sticks’ pokes. I miss them.

A wall of my box vanishes, flooding my eyes with blinding light. I squeeze them shut and slowly blink. The crowd is much louder now, with renewed energy at my presence. As my eyes adjust, I can see just how many humans there truly are. They surround me on all sides, sitting above my reach, no doubt for their protection. I am standing on hard ground. I stamp and stretch; the crowd roars even more. I breathe deeply, and snort; it smells terrible out here, of human sweat and food and heat, but also of blood. I can see dark stains on the ground, and I feel fear grip me. I want to run, but after a quick scan, I see no way out. I see something strange, however: there is a single human, a man, standing in front of me. He seems to be waiting for me to do something. They all do. I look from face to face, hoping that someone will help me get back home, but I find no kindness here. I hang my head again.

From behind, I can hear the humans with their pokers, and I know now they want me to approach the man in the ring with me. I think back to their cruel game, trying to make me mad, make me crazed. I swing my head back and forth and stamp my hooves; the crowd reacts gleefully. I see now, I understand. I am not what they think I am, not at all, but I can see no way out. I press a hoof onto a darker part of the ground, no doubt stained with the blood of another of my kind, my family. There is no going home for me. I know this now. The ache I feel inside deepens and envelops me. What I must do, the only thing I can do, becomes painfully clear.

The crowd roars, the man in front of me beckons. I face him and scrape the ground with a single hoof, narrowing my eyes. All they see is a raging bull, and so I shall give them one.