Trampled and Gored

Imagine this: you're a toreador and things are getting bad. The bull butts its head into you, and with a slash of its horns you're down.

It rushes past you, its hooves crushing your legs, breaking your kneecaps. You can barely move. You sit up, boosting yourself up with your arms, trying to ignore the pain in your legs. You know you have to get out of the way. Your hands dig into the sod as you try to drag your dead weight backwards, away, anywhere else. But you know it's useless: you have nowhere to go, no safety, no shelter.

The bull is back now. It's not running anymore; it just wants to see its handiwork. Its nostrils loom over you as it blows hot snotty air over your face. Then, with a cruel swing of its head, it gets you in the gut. Its horn sinks into your vulnerable softness, your belly, your unprotected underside. You can feel it piercing into your stomach, gashing through your guts, getting you in your centre where it hurts you the most.

It ambles away now and does no more damage. You half wish it would crush your skull like it did your legs, but the universe doesn't want you to get off so easy. The crowd above is jeering and cheering as you bleed out, your intestines spilling over the ground; but you will yourself to be conscious, not to faint, to feel the searing pain that manifests your reeling shame. You look out at the world and you smile in glorious defeat.