They Shoot Horse, Don’t They?

paper-bag-rideon-horses2

Horse

Yes?

You’re under arrest, Horse.

No.

You’re under arrest, Horse.

No.

I shall shoot, Horse.

No.

I shall shoot, Horse.

No.

I hate you.

No.

I shall murder you.

Not so.

I shall poison you.

Not so.

I shall crucify you.

Not so.

Think of your parents.

Never.

I am going to kill you.

As I said, never.

I shall shoot.

You have already said that once.

Now come along.

You can’t arrest me.

Why not?

You can take me into custody, but no more.

Than I shall take you into custody.

By all means.

By all means.

Horse?

Yes.

I’m sorry.

Horse?

Yes.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry, Horse.

A door opens slightly and a head of woman enters the room. “I’ve already made your breakfast, Horse. Go up and hurry. Father and medical students will be here in twenty minutes.”

The bedroom door is closed.

After the head disappears onto the stairs, a naked young man in his thirties rubs his hazel sleepy eyes and orderly dismounts a wooden dark painted horse; he grabs his daily ordinary cloths and takes a little glance at his hobby, he opens slowly the yellow creaky door and with quixotic beady eyes he puts himself together and makes his trot into the dining room then into the sun and lightness.

 

 

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