Bovine Intervention

His eyes were the last thing I saw every time. Dust would be kicked up by my dancing black leather shoes as the intricate gold filigree of my attire glistened in the sun. My mouth would be dry. I could not swallow the salty tang of sweat, but my gaze, unlike my hands, was steady. Yet, no matter which way I flicked the red cape, no matter which way I spun or with how much flare, his eyes were the last thing I saw. They were black. But they weren’t just black. This black talked even if he couldn’t. This black was uncanny. Even the darkness of my room, every time I routinely burst out of a shallow slumber, was brighter. Yet it was always mum’s warm body, and a fear of getting yelled at which eventually put me back to sleep. Since mum and dad split up when I was three, according to mum - I don’t actually remember, we had moved into our very own little house. Not a word was spoken of dad since. There was a deadly silence the first and only time I had asked. I got the message. Our house was two bedrooms, but really one and a half, so mum and I had always slept together in our shared room. Anyway, small room or not, I couldn’t fall asleep by myself. I even told mum about what I kept seeing, but she passed it off as just a little kiddie thing while insisting I do my English homework before she gets the belt. Mum listened very well, but she had no time for these childish problems. Even though I had never known what it must have been like with dad here, my young unruly self could see that life was hard on mum. I could see her frown lines cut deeper, her eye wrinkles more defined, yet the limp tugging of her lips was the worst of all. She only wore her warming smile with me, but sometimes when I was at home, I would catch her true expression. I had not fallen over enough of life’s hurdles to recognise that one yet. Nonetheless, our life was good. After my interrupted sleep I would wake to an empty bed and the aroma of a fried breakfast. Breakfast was the best meal of the day. Mum somehow always made the simplest foods taste the best, but she’d always make me eat a free Woolies green apple beforehand. Every time I would always place the fruit stickers under our laminate covered dining table as an act of delinquent rebellion. After the morning tomfoolery and a scramble to make the school bus, the day fell into monotony. That was until the routine dread of sleep’s faulty veneer would envelop me once more. The nights got worse. The dread before sleep increased. My unquenched need to tell mum everything, again, grew stronger. The nightly dance with those dark eyes intensified. My flaring of that red cape enraged those eyes, just for his horns to glide under it. Yet despite my fighting efforts, every time his eyes were the last thing I saw. I didn’t know what to do. So one morning I decided. That’s it. I’m finally telling mum. I wanted to say something to her as she cooked, but my tongue simply flailed behind my pressed lips. As mum covered the hissing food I slumped silently at the table. The doorbell rang. I pulled myself out of my chair at the sound, and yelled, “I got it!”, making my way to the front of the house. “It’s probably my parcel,” replied mum as she opened the door just before me.

She stopped.

The door gently swung open on its own. Mum didn’t say a word. On our porch stood a man. A man that seemed vaguely familiar, but I didn’t know him. I looked at mum. She was expressionless. Then I looked back at the man. His hair was fair, his lips, curled ever so slightly and his eyes... His eyes were dark. They were black.

A black I seemed a little too familiar with…