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| Killing by � pinky_lefty_revolutionary The sun wouldn't rise until six. The young man awoke. Opening one eye, the light filling the small bedroom filled his mind with a subdued dread. He rose, dressed in the clothes scattered on the unvarnished floorboards, flattening his dishevelled hair. Barefoot and silent he made his way to the bathroom, and splashed his face with water, cold and sharp from the tap. Holding his hands over his face, he turned to the mirror. He stared into the cold, vacant grey of his eyes, sunken and red-rimmed, unblinkingly returning the gaze. Sliding his hands away from his cheeks, he gave fleeting notice to the pallor of his skin, before awakening his mind to the reality of the day, and closing his heart to it's foreboding events. The older man was prepared and waiting. He stood at the front of the house, cap pulled down low at the front, hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat. He looked up at the sky only briefly, before casting his eyes down to the ground, rocking on his heels and humming faintly. His coat was patched and tied closed with twine. The sleeves extended beyond his hands. His wellingtons came up to his knees. He turned at the young man's approach, shrugging in acknowledgement of his son's presence. In silence they stepped into the cold morning. They walked side by side in a steady lope, the loose chippings crunching under their feet. The third man sat on the stone wall, an untipped cigarette resting in mouth, unlit. His short legs swung back and forth. He was whistling. He raised his hand in greeting, a smile creasing the corners of his lips. A shotgun rested between his knees, unloaded and unthreatening. There was no heat in the air, and the dew ran in thick drops down the long blades of grass, saturating as they cross the fields. The sun was a crescent behind the mountains as it pulled itself upwards, stabbing at their eyes and falling in bright broken beams in the shady corners. Birds ceased in their dawn chorus as they passed. The older man led the party, shaking his head as if to rid it of an irksome thought. The young man walked to his father's left, purposefully striding forwards, each footfall heavy and increasingly forced. The third man continued to whistle, trotting to keep up, swiping and knocking the heads from thistles with the unloaded gun. Sheep scattered as they reached the crest of the hill. The ground dropped before them as the upper field gave way to the valley, the steep slope of grass leading to the browner planes of bog that shored the river. The searing light began to give its first prickles of heat. The old mare watched through the bars of the gate. She took a tentative backwards step on her flat heels. The men approached, the wet grass whipping against their legs. They opened the gate and entered. She swung her head around, searching for her stable-mate. He wasn't near. The men stopped beside her. The young man offered her a treat. She craned her neck to accept it from his outstretched hand. The older man patted her sunken back. Contented, she moved away. On the side of the hill the stallion stood square, head raised high. The slightest of breezes caught his tangled mane, waving fine wisps along the length of his wasted neck. His mahogany brown coat caught the deep copper rays of the now risen sun, each protruding rib accentuated in the reflection of the light. His knees were huge balls like growths on each of the slender legs. He turned his head sharply towards the three men, the whiteness of his blaze dazzling in the early morning. His eyes were wild and alive. He stared, snorted loudly, and came forth. The stallion charged. Tossing his head violently, his long legs being thrown forwards forcibly, hooves tearing and tossing the ground in his wake. He bucked, once, twice, kicking out his bony hind legs and puffing heavily through his nose. He skidded to a halt some distance from the men, leaving deep tracks in the grass. Tossing his head again, as if to dismiss them, he gave a short squeal and spun on his hocks. A broken and rotted headcollar hung loosely from his delicate face. The older man stepped forward. The stallion paused and pawed the ground. He lowered his head. The older man advanced. The stallion flared his nostrils, wide and blood-red. Nodding deeply, bowing low on a front leg, the horse remained rooted to his spot. The older man extended his arm, draped in the over-sized sleeve of his coat. The horse emitted a nose deep in his throat, rising to a resemblance of a growl. His ears flattened on his head, pinned back. The whites of his eyes were wide. The young man joined his father. The stallion raised his head at the sight of the coiled rope held by the young man, tight against his leg. As if angered, the horse rose on his back legs, forelegs folded against his chest, his once magnificent form silhouetted against the sun. He landed heavily, rearing again immediately, spinning around and leaping into the air, front legs touching down as his back legs kicked out. Turning quickly to face the men he stopped, legs splayed, a semblance of ferocity. The young man attended to the rope, handing one end to the older man. The third man rested against the gate, watching avidly, patting the old mare's nose. The shotgun stood against his leg. The young man moved away from his father, unwinding the rope as he went. The stallion stood riveted, glancing over his shoulder at the field below. The men worked away from the horse to either side. He switched his uneasy gaze from one to the other. Suspiciously he backed away, keeping his face towards them. The rope was now stretched in front of him. Slowly the men moved around the horse, who was retreating, backing him towards the trees. Carefully choreographed, the stallion had been forced to turn quarter-circle, the open pasture now lying to his right. He gave the open space a considering glance, afraid to take his eyes off the two men. The older man moved right, cutting off his escape. Cornered now, the horse attempted to rear, when the rope was flicked over his head in one fluid movement, the young man and older man quickly crossing over, the rope tightening around his neck. He swung his head wildly, franticly fighting the pull of the bonds. The men leaned back against the strength of the horse, tossing and diving at the end of the rope. A loud click made the little mare's ears prick. The third man was carrying his gun, moving towards the other men in front of the horse. The stallion ceased to fight at the man's approach. He trembled as he stood, the force of the rope pulling him down. His knees began to give, causing him to rock forwards. The third man raised the gun to his shoulder. The horse raised his head. He reared. The older man and his son were pulled off their feet, stumbling and sliding in the wet grass. The shot rang out like a crack of thunder in the silent morning. The horse squealed. Coming down on his front legs, his knees buckled. He squealed again. The old mare jerked and shook with each of the piercing sounds made by her stable-mate. The stallion threw forward, from beneath him, his right leg, attempting to hoist himself up. The men relaxed the rope. The third man rested the barrel of the gun on the ground, wide-eyed and disbelieving as the stallion kicked and writhed, climbing awkwardly to his feet, revealing the torn and bloody gunshot wound of his left knee. His legs gave, and he collapsed again to his knees. The ground shook as his weight hit it. His squeals rose in a crescendo, climaxing in a high-pitched keening that rang in the men's ears. The old mare whinnied anxiously. The horse lay on his knees. His head dropped. The third man raised his gun. The shot sounded, and the horse's head wrenched upwards. The squealing ceased abruptly. His head swung sharply to the side, blood gushing from the gaping hole behind his left ear. He rolled onto his side. His hind legs kicked wildly against the ground, huge thumping tremours ran through the ground. His front legs lay folded, useless, broken beneath his body. Thrashing hopelessly in the grass, the stallion's breath became forced, short wheezing gasps. The third man ran forwards. The young man fell to his knees. The horse raised his single, bloodshot eye to the man with the gun. Holding the gun by the barrel, the third man raised it above his shoulder. The horse strained to raise his mangled head, as the gun came down suddenly, smashing against his delicate nose. The horse's eyes shut. The man raised the gun again, bringing it down with a stomach-wrenching thud on the horse's forehead. The stallion's legs kicked weakly, twitched feebly. The gun continued to fall on his fine head, blows of increasing intensity as his life slipped away. His legs lay still. His gasping ceased in one last release of air from his deflating lungs. Blood trickled from the once gushing gunshot wound, no longer pumped by his dead heart. The old mare huddled by the gate. The three men stood over the mangled corpse. The older man put his hand to the horse's neck, discovering no pulse. The young man leaned down, parting the bloodied and matted hair of the mane behind the stallion's ear, and undid the buckle of the rotted headcollar. Rocking on his haunches, he held the stiff leather in his hands. He leaned over again and placed the bloodied mane back over the gaping hole. The third man whistled, rubbing the barrel of his gun lustily. He turned and made his way to the gate. The older man followed. The young man wiped his bloody hands on the grass, rose and surveyed the pastures. The sun was high above the mountains. The old mare tentatively stepped out from the trees. The young man fed her a treat. They closed the gate and trudged across the field, the mare watched their backs through the bars of the gate. |
