Antonio's Choice (a short story)

This is an exercise in action. My stories tend to be dialogue heavy. With this one I wanted to start in the middle of things and let the action do the talking.

The cobblestones beneath Antonio’s bare toes rumbled like a snare drum. His lungs burned raw. Three blocks back, his quad muscles had pleaded, “no mas.” Two blocks before that, he’d decided ‘mas’ was his only option.

His legs skidded sideways as he rounded the polished stone of a shop corner. His fingers brushed the ground, but blind frenzy kept him on his feet. Any time lost here, meant time gained by the beast. The vibrations grew denser as those cloven hooves traced his footsteps. Warm breath bore down on Antonio’s bare back. He didn’t dare sneak a glance. What defence did he have against those piercing horns, beneath that unthinkable weight? More than he had against the Guzman brothers.

Granted these odds weren’t much friendlier than the brothers’ rigged show, but should he somehow survive today, at least the bull wouldn’t be waiting with two Uzis and an open car door.

He glanced to the side. Walls too high to climb. Homes and storefronts all locked nice and secure as the landlords watched from their roofs. From a balcony hanging over the T intersection ahead, he spotted half a dozen children. Their wide, white eyes tracking, not him, but something very close behind. The sight of their gaping mouths socked him to the belly-- betraying that had seconds left. If that.

He made a sharp shimmy to the side, knowing it was a mistake the instant he felt his calf muscles twitch. This was a trick for the bull ring, not Pamplona’s merciless current. Not in this place where momentum meant everything.

A flash of white and brown demolished the space beside him with the force of a cargo train. A searing heat branded Antonio’s hamstring. He fell to his back. The snorting bovine—already bearing down on the next corner—briefly turned its head to reveal a set of cruel, black eyes and one glistening red horn. But even that rage-crazed brain possessed enough reason to peg Antonio as a write off.  Sadly, he agreed.

 As he watched his would-be executioner gallop out of sight--it’s shit-stained tail swaying after the rest of the herd—he knew this was no mercy.  He lay face up in the empty street—the only fool to enter the race so late, and now his momentum was sliced to zero. He hobbled to his feet. Took half a step and collapsed into the dust.

 With his ear to the ground, he could make out the distant pounding of more hooves. Hooves he could no longer run from. Hooves which may very well remember his red cape.

What would little Melanie picture when she learned how he’d died? He wondered. The milk-cow who’d inspired her first words? Would any mention of that friendly “Moo” forever trigger associations with her late Papa— a matador’s funeral tainting that sweet memory? Would they tell her some version of the truth, or simply cast him off as some fool who was too brave for his own good?

Releasing a morbid groan, he wiped at the reddish-brown paste that covered his entire thigh and willed himself up on one knee. He glanced towards the corrugated rooftop, as a cheer rose up. No cries of “Antonio El Diablo,” could be heard however. No, these people saw no famous matador. Not a single one of them recognised the false hero-- doomed from the beginning to serve the Guzman betting racket. Their cries, “Ultimo Hombre! Ultimo Hombre!” reflected only the immediate reality.

Antonio took in those sunburnt faces and raised his fist. A second round of “Utimo Hombre! Ultimo Hombre!” rose up. What must they make of him? He wondered. Treating them to this unexpected final act in a show they’d cleared their afternoons to watch. Did they take him as crazy? Their cheers dissolved into eery silence as they seemed to grasp for the first time, that he could see them just as well as they could see him. Was that fear or respect?

He thought about speaking, he thought about offering an explanation of the danger he’d been running from, before he dove into the bull run like a madman. His refusal of Luis Guzman right in front of all his brothers, the sold-out arena he’d walked out on.  

He looked up. Focussed faces, hands covering their own mouths, arms raised to their heads. He shook his dusty mane of hair. No. This crowd needed no narrative. To them, to him, only one detail mattered now. Which variety of horn length, breed and temperament would the reaper adopt this time? 

As if to answer, the complicit stone buildings swapped beating echoes from behind their tightly spaced alleys. Trevor locked eyes with the leader of this final wave. Ginger, better kept than his original foe, though no less furious.  

The beast seemed to second guess itself as it rounded that corner. Rearing up slightly, yet carrying twice the momentum of its predecessor.  Three dusty hoof beats stomped out this hesitation. It nodded as it tracked his position, indulging in the extra space it had to line up its stationary target. A powerful snort expelled mucus across the hoof-harassed street. It lowered its head to show a blunt, hammer-like forehead.

For the briefest of seconds, Trevor felt cheated. From one hopeless situation, only to fall into this? But then he recalled the decision he’d made to leap from that building, onto this street. Key word: decision. He thought of Luis Guzman and his sadist older brothers for one final time. The look on their faces when they’d discover his pulp beaten corpse later tonight. The Euros they’d see thrown away. Floating into the heavens along with his soul.

The earth beneath his toes thudded like a bass drum. He opened his arms to that beast and closed his eyes.

 A girl’s scream rang out from above. His gaze shot to that rooftop. A set of olive-green eyes looked back at him. A pair of lips he’d kissed every single night of their short, sweet life. His own mouth twisted in horror.

Melanie?!

Then, whiteness.