The Bull

“The Bull drove his crooked horn through the fair maiden.” the words escape as a raspy whisper from an elderly homeless man's cracked, dry lips. Just a whisper but it is carried on the wind too the young man sitting in the grass nearby. He is disheveled, clothes wrinkled and dirty from a night in the trees. He turns his head as if just realizing the old man was there in the grass next to him. 

“What was that?” the young man asked in a worn voice, as if he had been crying all night “You say something to me?” he stares at the old man taking in his patchwork outfit and long tangled gray beard, perhaps it would be white without the dirt. 

The old man does not move, acting as if he didn't hear the man. He uses his long unkempt nails too trace in a patch of dirt in front of him. 

“Whatever” says the man “nothing but crazies out here.”  he whispers the last part too himself.

As if in response to this the old man opens his scarred lips “The Bull drove his crooked horn through the fair maiden” He continues to run his crooked nail through the dirt. This time it was not a whisper climbing from his mouth, it was spoken normally, albeit in a raspy voice. 

There is a moment of quiet, all that can be heard are the few cars driving on the overpass above them. Before the younger man can speak, the old man opens his mouth again. “The Maiden thought herself safe from the Bull, thought she had tamed the fury out of it, as she looked at the crimson covering the horn all she felt was sadness, failure.” 

The young man turns to face the old man “What the hell are you going on about?” The young man can see the eyes of the elderly man looking down at the dirt. His eyes are milky from blindness. Seeing this he shifts his gaze to the patch of dirt he drags his nail through. Nothing but abstract shapes to him.

“She had taken the Bull when it was alone, scared, hurt from life's woes.” He continues to speak, the young man unsure if it is too him or if the man is just crazy. “She was a caretaker by nature, seeking to nurture what was damaged by cruel men.” he takes a ragged breath and continues “A beast such as he is full of rage, a wrong move and it could be your end, but she was tender, soft hearted. The Bull was calm with her, she nurtured it, and began to heal his wounds.”  The old man picked up the pace of his drawing in the dirt and the young man could see it was not just abstract lines, but it was taking shape into something, a man.

“You memorize how to draw for this story?” the young man askes “pretty impressive we could take you around and make some money maybe” he says jokingly cracking a smile showing perfect teeth the old man does not react to what he says, no smile, not even a flicker of recognition. The old man begins again.

“She believed she had done it, cured the Bull of his scars and cooled the burning fury. She had not.” he pauses and closes his dead eyes. He sits there motionless, not a breath escapes his lips.

“Hey,” the young man says, “what the hell are you doing?” the old man does not budge, he sits like a statue. “I don’t know if you're deaf or just ignoring me but you're starting to piss me off.” he lays a hand on the old man to shake him from his stillness. As his dirty but well-manicured hands touch his shoulder the old man snaps his hand up and grabs the collar of the young man's wrinkled and dirty dress shirt. 

“Hey what the hell are you doing let me go!” he shouts trying to pull himself away. The old man holds an iron grip on his collar and lays his other hand on his sleeve covered wrist, griping so tightly he would bruise the skin beneath. The old man's scared and crooked hand does not let go of the brown stained sleeve. “Stop now or I'll kill you, you freak!” fury builds in the young man's voice. His eyes are full of rage and fear. The old man does not falter and begins yelling on his own “She thought she tamed him for good, cured the poisonous rage from the Bulls heart. She had delayed his nature, small mistakes built into a mountain of failure in the Bulls mind. Like gunpowder it only needed a spark.” His voice reached a crescendo “She made a final mistake and wore red! Now his crooked horn shares the color, and she lies dead!”

With a strong push the young man sends the old man falling on his back in the dirt. The man's rage overtakes him, and he jumps atop the old man and releases that fury in a hail of fists on his frail face, staining the dirty gray beard red. The young man sits back at the feet of the old man, breathing heavily. His arms-stained crimson from the onslaught.

The old man opens his smashed lips and speaks through haggard breaths “The Bull drove his crooked horn through the fair maiden.” He smiled as a final breath escaped his mouth and blood ran upon the ground. It pooled into the drawing he had made in the dirt. The young man stood and looked down at what he had done and looked at the blood-filled image next to the old man's body. The anger in his eyes gave way to fear and panic. He stumbled backward, nearly tripping, and ran into the trees. Back to the woods that brought him here. The blood stopped spilling from the old man and the image was complete. A young man driving a knife into a young woman in a red dress.