Stories and News No. 188
I read today the news of the accident that happened to bullfighter Michelito in Mexico City.
Usually when I learn of some incident during a bullfight, my first and only thought is about the bull, which I hope ever safe from that vile and humiliating aggression it is forced to endure on the public square.
But the situation this time is a bit different.
In addition to the bull, there is another victim: he’s the bullfighter himself, fortunately survived without great damage.
I'm talking about that Michelito, a twelve years old child disguised as a matador.
Victim him and so the bull.
But then - those two, maximum three readers of this Blog will ask - who is the aggressor?
Here’s the answer.
He’s a man who, commenting on the news of the risk incurred by the boy, said so: "I'm proud of him."
In theory he should be Michelito’s father...
I understand that it will sound incredible to you, I am the bull and I’m writing you a letter.
I know it's absurd.
But the fact that hundreds of people are fond of watching the torture your colleagues inflict to me, considering them brave for that seems to more than simply absurd.
However, I’m not here to talk about the madness of bullfight.
I'm here to apologize.
I’m sorry to have you hit with my horn.
The fact is that when I entered the arena and all the people start to scream I see all red and no longer distinguish what I have in front of me.
That’s not the red that you waved trying to get my attention or trigger my anger.
The red that blinds my eyes is the blood shed by my brothers, the only way out of this hell when we ended.
That is why we are launching like crazy on you with drawn horns.
We cannot wait to get rid of this, to make you win and allow you to receive the final applause from your admirers.
No regret, no remorse hinders us, because we know that whatever may be the punishment by the god of bulls, for the wrongs done to some of you, will always be better than what we endure today.
However, yesterday something happened that shocked me.
For the first time I was ashamed of myself.
For the first time I felt guilty.
For the first time I would have preferred to have remained stationary without running.
A child dressed as a bullfighter, yes, but still a child.
A child on the ground because of my horns…
I could not believe my eyes, finally free from the red veil of pain that never leaves me.
Then I heard the crowd call upon your name...
As the bullfighter Michel Lagravere, your father, that I saw triumphant in the audience, while your team mates raise you from the ground.
I am now in my stable, tired, wounded but with a rage that I have never had in my life.
Forgive me, Michelito.
I'm glad you are fine, but please.
Next time, send me your daddy.
I cannot wait to apologize to him too…
The News: Baby bullfighter gored in the bullring.
Stories and news: “invented” Stories, fruit of my imagination, inspired by “true” media News.
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