Bull Fight

When you hear the term 'bull fight', what picture comes to mind? What image storms into your consciousness? The bull. The raging, sanguinary beast. Its eyes deranged, nostrils flaring. The fight. The arena, full of cheering patrons, shamefully eager to see red from a source other than the matador's flag. The smell of sawdust and sweat swirl through the crowds. The air itself is charged, seemingly on the precipice of crackling with electricity.
I've never liked the bull fights. People's need for entertainment transforming grazing farm animals into a dangerous and terrified creature. These thoughts lingered in my mind as I walked the deserted streets. The sun was low in the sky. I could have been the last man on Earth if it wasn't for the sounds leaking over the top of the arena. The hooves scraping. The heavy breathing. The indescribable sound of collision and pain. The sonance form of the Mexican wave travel through space to meet my unwilling ears.
Crash. The sound of a man made prison giving way to the sheer force of nature. The sound of jeopardy approaching. The sound of hooves on cobblestone. Echoing from surface to surface until the noise surrounds me. The word is still. Freezing in the wake of the mammoth beast rounding the corner. Unlike the world around me, terror forces me to move. To run away. The water is red. I have no where else to go. Fear like acid, eating away at logic and thought. I launch myself into the water. As gravity pulls me through the surface, the sun finally sinks. The water turned to a fathomless black. I glance behind me. Hot air from a ringed noise meets me like a blow. I demerge in the water. My closed eyes still saw blazing eyes.

No, I 've never liked the bull fights much.