Cold

A loud cry from a handsome black rooster pierced the stone-grey morning. He was strutting across a rain-soaked pasture that was now covered in sparking, frozen dew, squawking and flying through the misty air in frenzied bursts. All the noise awoke Arun, who grumbled and squirmed in his bed, pulling his sheets a little closer to ward off the icy morning air. Paying the heating bill was off the table this month, with the tax deadline rolling in and his father’s hospital bills looming in the air. It was ok, though. It just meant everyone had to go to bed wearing layers. The rooster cawed again, reminding Arun of his morning chores. Slowly, he rose out of his nest of greying quilts and braved the cold. His morning breath let out in little puffs and fogged up the mirror as he brushed his teeth.

Soon Arun was ready for the day. He began the trek across his family’s small farm, shivering all the while and pulling his cracking windbreaker a little tighter. First he cleaned out the chicken coops, gathering the eggs in a basket while avoiding the hens’ angry pecks at his sleeves. Once they were all in the kitchen, he began his least favorite part, cleaning all the droppings the pigs had left the day before. For obvious reasons this was very unpleasant, and Arun worked as quickly as possible, holding his breath then running to get a gulp of air from across the field once his lungs started to burn.

Sooner than later he had finished all he was obligated to do, and he ran across the field once again. His footsteps disturbed the crystals on the grass as he made his way to the stable. It was worn down and only big enough for one animal. Even though the cold was crawling its way further into Arun’s soul with every second he stayed outside, this next task was one he never missed, even when he had the day off from chores. Inside the little shack (that’s all it was, really) stood a single bull. He was strong and sturdy, with menacing horns jutting out of his head and a lustrous brown coat. Arun clamored his way inside until he was next to it and spread his arms around its belly, breathing in its familiar smell. Its name was Buddy. A strange name for a bull, yes, but you could hardly blame the one who gave it to him as he was only six at the time. Five years ago he was brought to the farm, by a neighbor who couldn’t take care of him anymore. He was a skinny, knobby thing then, horns less fearsome and instead adorable and big black eyes that saw into your soul. Arun’s parents couldn't really take care of him either. Money had always been tight. But as soon as Arun had seen the awkward, lanky thing, he declared that he would just die if they didn’t let him adopt it. It was a whole ordeal--he had to promise that he would take care of it and take up extra chores as payment to his parents, but it was worth it.

Buddy sprung up much faster than Arun. While the boy was still skinny and his knees were still knobby, the bull flourished under the attentive care given to him. And even though Arun knew it was weird, and he would never say this to anyone else, he considered Buddy his best friend. He didn’t have many other friends, really, so it wasn’t that great of an accomplishment, but he figured even if he did, his furred companion would still take the cake. His parents would always groan about how expensive he was and how pointless it was to own him, but Arun knew that deep down they loved him as much as he did and would never actually give him away like they said they would.

But then Dad got sick. Arun didn’t remember the name of what he had, but all he knew was that whatever was inside his father was sipping from his life force like the queen of England sips tea. A man that once ran around with his family and worked the farm without fail every day now had to press a buzzer for help when he had to pee. Arun’s mom was a strong lady, but she couldn’t manage all the tasks her husband once helped with. Her youngest son was only eleven, for goodness’ sake, and she had always had a bad leg. So the family downsized. The farm shrank, the electricity bills were often left unpaid, and although it hurt her pride considerably she had to apply for food stamps.

Arun knew that it was only a matter of time before Buddy was sold.

When he returned to his house to wash up and get ready for school, his mom was in the kitchen flipping eggs with a pensive look on her face. She turned around when she heard him come in, and when she met his eyes she looked at him a certain way and then he knew. Buddy would probably be gone by the end of the week. It had been a long time coming, but even before his mother could confirm his fears he felt embarrassingly hot tears well up and warm his face.

She tried to explain herself, but Arun already knew why. He knew that they needed the money, and he knew that Buddy had been just another expense to her for some time now. But that didn’t make it hurt any less. The opposite, in fact. It made him angry. Angry that he was poor. Angry that his father was dying. Angry that he didn’t have any other friends, and that he had too many chores, and that it was too cold to think straight in his house.

The rest of the day passed by in a haze of red and blue. At school when his teachers called on him he didn’t even hear what they said. At lunch, when he sat down alone to eat his thin sandwich, he burst out into silent tears. And on his trudge home, his anger pushed him to action. He began to plan.

The next night, it happened. Arun stuffed his backpack with two peanut butter sandwiches, a water bottle, ten dollars he had saved from collecting recyclables, and as much hay as he could fit. He crept through the door almost silently. He had on two sweaters, his windbreaker, a hat, three pairs of socks (which he had a great deal of trouble stuffing into his shoes), and his thickest pair of jeans.

Soon he was at the stable. Only, he wasn’t alone. His mother was there, and so was a man with a rope in his hands. A rope that was tied around Buddy’s neck.

And then Arun was screaming. He couldn’t even control the sound that ripped out of his chest, and he didn’t even try to stop the tears from escaping his eyes. He didn’t feel the cold night air as it whipped around him, couldn’t hear his mother running over to him, couldn’t think of anything else besides the fact that Buddy was leaving.

It lasted for what seemed like hours.

Arms were wrapped around him now. He was coming back down to reality. His mother’s voice drifted into his ears. “Shh, my little one. Calm down. I...I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have to…” And then she let out a chorus of sobs as well, crashing against Arun’s own cries forcefully. She leaned in, pulled him closer to her chest, snuggled his face into her shoulder. He felt her tears on his cheeks, burning like fire through the cold. They stayed like that for some time.

Eventually she got up, brushed herself off, and finished selling Buddy.

The heater was working the next day. But even still, the cold was in his heart, stronger than ever.