Mercy and the Matador

Like a bull in the ring, I stood before the glorious matador dressed with flair and bells. Bright colours everywhere, waving his red flag. Provoking fear and anger. Around and around the stadium I go. Pacing with a gentle conviction. I was not meant to fight. This was not me. I was not meant for another’s twisted entertainment. Not for all to see.
I warn, flashing my horns to the crowd as they move closer to the edge of their seats. Two white steeds, adorned in armour, entered this domain. Flashing under the scorching summer sun, like dew in my home field. Head down, I turned my back to the matador. He doesn’t deserve my attention.
The cold metal tip of a spear buried itself in my shoulders. A twisting crimson tail billowed across the ring in my wake to the roaring crowd’s excitement. Again and again the metal dug into my flesh. Spears wearing delicate silk flew like flags in the wind. Beautiful colours, a crowd in awe. Such power and grace, they are begging for more. In his eyes, the matador reflected the crowd’s cruel desire. Haunting and sadistic, a smile crept along his face. The red cloth rippled along the wind then cracked like a whip as the end grew near. I snapped. A bull in a china shop I charged. I rushed blindly towards the matador. A sickening sense of victory consumed him.
Silver, the sword emerged from the matadors cape. My maker. With menacing arrogance he stood. A merciless soldier of glory.   Poised to kill, a graceful step to the side before the blade invaded my heart. The razor edge reflected the burning Spanish sun as it lit up the sky. Dust enveloped me as my legs gave way beneath me. Exhausted and weak, I writhed and fought for but a moment. I walked from the plaza and the sun devoured my soul.
A proud yet gentle creature, slain for the pride of another. Cruel intentions to an undeserving beast. At his whim and his discretion, he takes my failing heart. I am not proud, I am not me. I lost against the matador, though, don’t we all?