All Beasts Bleed

The air is stagnant, stirred by quivering flank and restless feet; fouled by sweat drawn from heat and fear in equal measure. The taint of blood is subtle but grows heavier with every pounding heartbeat. Bull and man face each other, wide-eyed and frantic. Ribs creak with heaving breath, mouths filled with foaming exhaustion. Flies congregate over pools of seeping warmth, their buzzing delight unfazed between the choice of salt or iron. The crowd is a roaring murmur, fading into the back-ground behind a wall of heavy silence that encompasses the arena grounds. The quiet is punctuated with desperate inhaling and pained exhaling that surrounds the desperate figures like haunted wind.

There is a spear-tip buried deep within the bulls right shoulder and a number of lashes to its flank. The shaft of the weapon had splintered in half on impact but the bull still stands with defiance. The matador's cape flutters listlessly in its tattered remains, barely stirred by that ever-stale air. He can see the tip of one horn that adorns the head of the bull is coloured in deep crimson, a fearful colour, and whilst he can feel the aches and weakness racking his body he dare not glance down to see the wound from which that blood originated. To do so would most likely gain the bull an opportunity to paint himself a matching pair. So instead they face-off, a battle of will mingled with a war of remaining strength. Both sway with fatigue too heavy to act; the bull cannot be drawn to charge and the man is too unsteady to risk dancing out of the way in time. Now it is simply a race of ruby rivers; a question of which beast will bleed enough to fall and end it all.

Drum-beats of muscle chant with the expectant crowd. Each length of skin is a laden cloud of viscous rain that mixes with the sand to create tiny, morbid beaches. The flies revel in their feast; the focus of the fight too fraught with consequence to risk the movement needed to swat them. Their eager buzzing matches the white-noise haze of emotions raking through the crowd and over the beaten flesh of the two weary competitors.

Muscles shake and twitch and it is hard to determine if adrenaline or blood-loss is driving the numbness through their bodies. The heat is thrown into stark contrast with the cold chill of skin draining of life and washed with beads of sweat. The air grows impossibly more still, as if the whole arena has held its breath in wait for what comes next. Movement slows to infinitesimal moments of time spaced out in inpatient increments to map every change with precision. The colour of the crowd and cape is vibrant yet it is dulled to the glazing eyes of these now statuesque bodies. Everything waits for one to crumble.

A stumble, a gasp, a monetary hush among the crowd. A plume of dust signals the fallen. Joints have betrayed the body and a towering form has toppled; the weight of wounds too heavy to allow them to stand any longer. The roar of the crowd is frantic - but is it screams or cheers or both?

The scent of blood is everywhere now, trickling from the noses of the injured and drifting into those who bear witness.

The bull snorts his defiance.

The man grunts his.

In this battle of trickery, strength, and speed there is no winner. Someone will always bleed and if they are lucky the fight will end before a fatal blow is struck; or that very blow will come swiftly to not prolong the suffering.

The crowd is chaotic, the ground is warm and sticky, the moment is over. The air is once again stagnant with grief and drying blood mixed with sand. It waits, disinterested, for the inevitable trysts to follow.