The Raging Bull

The room was dim and stagnant, dust motes floated by, swirling in the air as the sunlight sliced through the middle of the old room where the curtains had worn and frayed, not quite meeting together. It smelled musty and damp, the old fabric armchair was threadbare across its arms, the feet repaired with odd blocks of wood and wonky nails. A faded throw had been placed over the seat to cover the body shaped imprint from years of use and the patchwork squares and mismatched thread used to fix the holes.

Trophies lines the mantlepiece, once flawless and polished professionally, now sat with a layer of dust coating them, dulling their shine, forgotten and age worn against the thick oak shelf and crumbling stone wall. The centrepiece, a bucking bull trophy, its rider holding on tightly, one arm raised in the air holding a hat as they appeared to dance a perilous dance, one only they knew the music to. The bull would always be leading, its hooves like beating drums against the ground while the rider tries to keep up with the rhythm, his balance and timing everything. One misstep would lead to injury.

Beneath the mantle, a small fire crackled and popped, its warm glow a contrast to the blackened, soot filled space it sat in. The logs burning were no longer chosen and split by hand, but store brought. No-ones warmth came to stoke the fire to keep it roaring, no love raised the embers, saving them from burning out. Nothing but the cold emptiness remained in this house, cold shadows left to quench the flames as time took its toll, leaving nothing more than a smouldering pit. Memories haunted this house, the laughter that bellowed through the rooms, stains on the faded carpet from nights spent spilling drinks and cheering amongst friends, chipped glassware from celebratory evenings, trophies knocked against doorframes which held the markers of height and growing up, nails banged into the wall to display certificates and photographs, chipping the paint away. Life fuelled this house from the foundations to the rafters. The warm embrace of love and comfort now withering away, wilting like a dying flower as the life of its owner lay incapacitated in his bed, the cold encroaching on him.

Up the warped stairs, and across the landing was the master bedroom, its thick oak door left ajar, light brightly shining from within, a contrast to the rest of the house. The last remnants of light and warmth situated in what is now the heart of the house, its owners’ room. The walls were covered in a peeling cherry blossom paper, what was once vibrant in colour now almost bleached white. Faded yellow curtains swayed in the breeze and a creaky wooden floor left bare and bowed in places. Pictures lined the wall; a wife, a child, a family across one wall. Across another wall, the owner upon the back of various bulls, winners podium shots, friends, and events.

The woman held the old man’s hand, her fathers. The leathery, paper-thin skin clammy against her own as she grasped him tightly. She stared down at his wrinkled, sun spotted hands as he lay there, his breath ragged and forced, this frail body was nothing at all like the man she knew, the man who didn’t know the meaning of slow down, who looked at danger with a tip of the hat, a glint in his eye and a smirk on his face seeing nothing more than a thrill. Now though, he stared at her almost absently, he hadn’t the strength to muster to speak to her, to embrace her but he remembered her, he re-lived every moment in his head, revisited every memory he had saved away.

He took her with him to his biggest show when she had turned ten years old, a father proudly showing off his daughter to anyone who would listen, she was delighted, and he could never have felt prouder than in that moment. No trophy, no win, no event could ever compare to the warmth that spread in his heart, filling it up to bursting point with adoration and love. He took her first to where only the riders and staff could go, to the holding pens where bulls crashed against their holding pens as they waited to be placed into bigger waiting areas. Their heads low to the ground as they snorted, blowing up dust whilst their hooves scraped the floor, gouging lines, their horns crashed through the barriers, nothing but a metal fence between them and their freedom.

She was scared at first, jumping with every crash and bellow, but then they came to one that had settled, albeit temporarily. Its stocky body stood still in the corral, its head held high, sniffing. Its horns were long, curving upwards, one snapped halfway down, the other almost pointed to a spike. she watched as it walked forwards, a slow, mindless amble around the boundaries as it tested the fence, its nose pushing against the bars. She wanted to go and stroke it, but he pulled her back, it was still a dangerous animal no matter how content and calm it looked. Instead, he sat her atop his shoulders. It was the bull he would ride, the bull he had to stay on for a minimum of eight seconds to get any points. It was a white bull with brown spots and brown horns, he would always remember this bull, it was the last ride of his career, then he would retire for good, choosing to take one less danger and train instead of ride.

Leaving her sat with some of his friends on the stand, he made his way back to the private area to get ready. The crowds were bigger than usual, he was a big name in his field, and everyone wanted to watch him one last time before he hung his hat up with it all.

The jingle of the spurs on his boots could be heard with every step, his chaps well worn and faded from use whilst his black leather gloves were verging on new, a fresh piny scent emanating from them from the Rosin he had coated them in for better grip. He had learned the hard way when first starting out that no gloves would mean rope burns. He adjusted the cowboy hat on his head before waving at the crowd, inciting a wave of cheers and calls from them, a pang of indecision hit him for a brief second, this was the last ride, the last show… but then he remembered what he was giving it up for, he headed to the back area without slowing another step.

After watching the other riders for the last hour, his name was called and his bull ready for him in the bucking chute. Jumping on the spot for a moment he warmed himself up and shook off any other thought than that of himself and the bull, focusing on the creature with its wild eyes as it was penned into the chute. He watched it rattle the bars, snorting and trying its hardest to get out, it looked wild. One last time, one last ride. He climbed up and dropped down onto the bull, grasping the bull rope tightly, he took a few seconds to get a feel for the animal, to get his balance, this was a dance, the bull his partner, he needed to find the rhythm. Sat there he could feel the creatures’ breath coming in fast and heavy, he felt the vibrations of its bellows through its body and the shivers of tension as it wildly sought to escape and rid itself of him.

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself before nodding that he was ready. With a loud, echoing bang, the gate slammed open from his right side and the bull bolted away from this new opening, twisting, and turning, bucking until it was almost vertical on its front legs, leaning back, he pushed his feet into the stirrups to stay on.

1 second.

The bull landed back down and jumped to the side, twisting itself around, he leaned forwards as quickly as he could, his balance in jeopardy already.

2 seconds.

Another buck, it wasn’t as big as the first, with one hand on the bull rope, he used his other to grab his hat, holding it above his head momentarily inciting whoops and cheers, before throwing it down to the side, leaning forwards to counter the landing, he could retrieve it later. He had to put on a show to get more points.

3 seconds

The bull charged forwards, Rodeo Clowns leaping out of the way. All he heard was silence now and his heartbeat, there was no longer a crowd around him, just him and the bull alone in the arena.

4 seconds

Sweat dripped down his temples, his muscles shaking from the effort to keep himself seated, leaning backwards then forwards he followed the motion of the bucking, he was thrust from his seat and only his feet in the stirrups kept him atop the bull now.

5 seconds

He could hear his own heartbeat; he saw the eye of the bull looking back at him, crazed as it ran forwards. The crowd just a colourful blur in his peripheral.

6 seconds

His grip faltered as he felt himself slip whilst the bull spun on the spot, feet kicking out, its bucking inconsistent and sporadic.

7 seconds

His weight pulled him down, his legs slipping from the saddle, just one more second, he held tight to the bull rope, clenching his thighs whilst he slipped almost in slow motion

8 seconds

The horn blasted to signal that the minimum required time had been hit, he gripped the bull with every muscle he could use, he would make this a showstopper. The bull reared up, throwing him upwards.

9 seconds

The bull slammed down, its hooves heavy, thudding against the ground. His back hit the dusty floor with a thud, the Rodeo Clowns were already distracting the bull as he took a second to catch his breath. As quickly as he could, he pulled himself up and jumped the fence to safety, turning to see the bull running circles around the men in the arena. He brushed himself down as he gazed towards the leader board, the crowd almost silent in anticipation as he stood there. His name flashed up in first place position, the crowd all stood in unison and roared but he just had eyes for one person. His gaze went straight to his daughter who was jumping on the spot screaming for him, he didn’t wait to be told he could leave, he ran around the outside ignoring all the calls until he got to her, picking her up and swinging her around, grasping her tightly against him. This was his favourite memory; this was also the last he would remember.

As he lay in his bed, he looked at her now, all grown up, independent. He mustered all his strength, he opened his eyes wide to see her properly one last time and squeezed her hand for just a second before his last breath shuddered from his mouth, his eyes closing, he almost looked like he was just asleep. All he saw before the last curtain call on his life was every moment shared with her and his wife, every cheer, every happy moment every heartache and mend that he had put right, every occasion and every milestone. His daughter lifted the hat from his stomach and hung it above the bed, over his head. Now he could truly hang his hat up and say he had had the most amazing show, for a life lived is the biggest achievement one can fulfil.