Death in the Dust

In a time after the dandelions had blown away, but before the leaves had begun to fall, his father disappeared. One day, they were playing together in the yard, joyously romping about together as always, and the next, he was simply gone. As he grew older, he learned from the others that his father had gone away to fight, something he’d trained for all his life, though his son only remembered the moments they spent together and the companionship he deeply missed. His father had made him feel safe in a world that felt far too large and far too empty with him gone. There is something to be said about a parent who makes their child’s world feel small in a safe way, so that their minds may run free in a world as big as they choose. Now, no matter how many individuals surrounded him, he felt alone and didn’t know why, for he was too small to understand the difference between physical solitude and a lonely heart.

It had been several years since he’d last seen his father when Mateo learned that he, too, would train to fight as his dad had done. He was reserved, unsure of whether or not he wanted to follow in the footsteps of the one who had caused so much pain by leaving him wrapped up in a vast, empty loneliness. Mateo was also no fighter, especially in a physical sense, despite his appearance. He’d tussled with his dad a bit when he was younger, and played rough with his friends, but he had no real drive to battle like the other boys his age. They seemed to have an infinite source of rage, of fiery passion, that seemed only to grow stronger as they tapped into it. They were fighters. Though Mateo was large for his age, and could have easily taken down the others, he didn’t want to hurt them. He had no wish to fight.

Unfortunately for him, his opinion was not taken into consideration. Mateo was forced to train, running hard in the hot sun, sparring with his friends, and being left with very little time to think of much else besides when his next drink of water might come. At night, he collapsed with exhaustion. He could never sleep too deeply, however, for the men training them, with their hard faces and painful whips, woke them all at the crack of dawn to keep training, and woe betide the fellows who remained asleep after the first wakeup call.

After many months of brutal training, Mateo was stronger than ever before, but he was covered in scars from the many lashings he’d received for not being faster, fiercer, or angrier. The men always tried to rile them up, yelling and throwing things at them. They would be beaten, whipped, hit, and threatened with far worse. The trainees quickly learned that the harder they fought and the more wild and angry they were, the more pleased the men were, and they received fewer lashes. Mateo lost many friends after they realised that, no matter how hard they pushed him or how mean they were to him, he would not properly fight them. He just didn’t want to risk hurting them, even when they hurt him first. This, however, made them angry. Did he think he was better than they were? Was he just weak? Why wouldn’t he train properly with them? Why wouldn’t he just fight so they could all improve? The simple fact was that Mateo refused to put his heart into the thing that had, in his mind, taken his father away. He was motivated by the whip, the base instinct to avoid bodily harm, and little else. He would move about quickly and kick at his opponents, but tried to avoid actual contact. Eventually, the others would not even let him sleep in the same place they did, so insulted were they that he would refuse their forced way of life, and he had to curl up in the warmest spot he could find outside. Now, he was not only alone in heart, but in body as well. The aches of a lonely heart are to be expected, poetic as they may be, but those who have not experienced physical loneliness as well might not expect the very real pain that comes along with it. Mateo felt as though he had fallen ill, so sharp were the pains that ran through him. When his peers rejected him, the last of his hope died.

Sullenly, he continued his training. He was lethargic and slow, but would roar with pain when the whip reprimanded him for thinking he could fall behind. Anger began to burn in his heart, and it felt so much better than the dreadful emptiness that had inhabited it before. So, he fed it. He dug in his heels and trained harder, and when they shoved him back in the fighting arena, he fought. He threw everything he had at his opponent - all the pain, the emptiness, the loneliness, the crying sense of life being dreadfully unfair, and all the wrong that had been thrown at him in his short life. He let out a terrible cry and thundered at the other, seeing only red.

As they dragged the body off of the field, Mateo heard clapping. The tall man with the hardest face and the sharpest whip came up to him and declared, “You are ready, my boy.”

The ring was surrounded by so many people that their faces and cheers melded into one mass, and Mateo’s angry heart was fueled by the cacophony of yelling, clapping, noise makers, stomping, and bells. Yet, underneath that anger, fear was blooming swiftly. He did not understand why he couldn’t move his neck. He did not understand why there was so much noise, so many people. He’d never seen so many humans in one place. He wondered if they all had whips, if they, too, would whip him if he didn’t fight.

He barreled into the stadium, kicking up dust as he tramped about in search of his opponent, but he was confused. There was no opponent, just a shining human standing in the middle of the ring. The human was whipping a great sheet around and around. The movements were quick, the fabric snapping much like the whip that cracked through the air when he did something wrong. He wanted it to stop. He barreled toward the sheet, trying to rip it out of the air, anything to make the sound and the movement stop. But right as he approached, it was gone. He whipped around, and there it was again! Over and over, he thundered to the flag, much to the glee of the audience.

Pain. Pain like he hadn’t felt before. The minutes dragged on and on, and he was getting slower and slower. He didn’t understand. The world was beginning to grow fuzzy, spinning slightly. His back and face hurt so much. The roar of the crowd faded in and out as he tried desperately to stop the cracking of the flag that reminded him so much of all the pain he had suffered at the hands of his trainers. He didn’t understand, he didn’t understand. He was alone. Dust was everywhere, blood ran down into his eyes, and he bellowed fearfully as he stumbled.

As the matador plunged the sword into his back to pierce his heart, his last thought was of his father, and if he might see him again someday.

He wondered if he would be proud.