Save me from the nothing I've become
Mojave was shaking his head wildly as he reared up. He was going to fall on me and I looked behind me; it was black, broken pavement and gravel and then everything went dark. I felt crushed, pieces of gravel embedding into the back of my head, all of the air pushed out of my lungs as the saddle horn dug into my gut.
I was still conscious but it was dark because my horse was laying on me and the weight was tremendous. He wasn’t just laying on me, he was violently thrashing, like a turtle stuck on his back. I knew his legs were flailing; I could feel it and was worried he would hit me in the head with a flying hoof if the saddle didn’t gut me first. The saddle horn shifted into my lower pelvis and then up to my stomach again. I heard him grunting, fighting, kicking as a river of blood ran off my horse’s neck and into my face and down my arms. I had lost all of my air and was struggling to get a breath but I was inhaling his blood. I spit it out.
Time seemed interminable but I felt like I was dreaming. I had just been taking pictures with the police’s mounted unit to paint portraits. Shots rang out and now...
Then I turned to my left and saw corporal Pete Porter on the ground. He was looking at me; he was covered in blood but he wasn’t moving. I tried to call his name but nothing came out. He seemed to be gasping for air now and then he stopped.
He’s dead. Pete is dead, sleeping somewhere cold. Wake me up.
Dead and I screamed but nothing came out. I knew he was dead and I wondered if I was as well. Mojave had fallen over on his side, pinning my left leg and arm. He stopped struggling and I noticed that he, too, was covered in blood. The red splatters across his white blanket looked like an artery had been hit. He groaned one last, long time and then he didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. He was on his side and his legs were suspended stiffly in the air.
I gasped for air but couldn’t get any. I looked up at the sky and then noticed faces of people standing over me. I was asking them for help but they couldn’t hear me. I was pretty sure my pelvis was broken, if not my back. Pete was dead, Mojave was dead but I didn’t know if I was dead as well. I was trapped under 1200 pounds of horse but I couldn’t move. I can’t breathe. Breathe, Mare. Breathe. Help me, Gerry.
Help me.
Copyright Mare Loch 2023 Mojave: The Fame of Gerry Frey by Mare Loch. © All rights reserved. Read for free on Kindle Unlimited or buy on Amazon.
The characters and events portrayed on this website and all subsequent publications are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. No part of this website may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Comments