Lion Tamer

Tears flowed down his face, the deep canyons of age acting as river beds. Fatigue drooped his red clad shoulders low. Behind his closed eyes, the dreaded scene played out again and again. The surprise and shock made him shudder. He felt the pressure, the ripping and tearing of his flesh as his right hand was pulled away from him. He remembered the red splashes, the absolute terror, the long fall. An immense sadness filled him at the loss, the constant reminder being it's absence. Those short moments of his life burned so vividly that they became his life. The definition of it. The flame that set his afire.


Now the beast was dead. The errant fool with astonishing intelligence and the certainty of it's species. The animal that was feared and loathed by too many and admired by too many more. He was dead. "Justice!" his fellow performer's had called it. "Justice!" they sang from the center ring.


Still, he felt no real joy. He didn't know the jubilation that others were experiencing. He understood loss more deeply than the others. He had an insight they could never have. Yes, the beast had taken something precious away from him, but no matter how vicious he had been. No matter what mercy he lacked, what lies he fed upon, what scenes played through his mind, his absence was sure to be noticed. His death only added to the pool of violence and sadness.


*** Daily Writing Practice ***