"Best Friends Forever" -Short Story

      “Why do we have to put him down, Dale? Why can't he just live with us on the farm?”

      “Because that's what happens to horses, Mitch. Once their leg breaks they're no good.”

      “Just because their leg breaks doesn't mean they're broken!”

      “Sorry, Mitch, but we have to do it.”

       Mitch pulled on the rifle in Dale's hand. It clacked with its broken strap and loose hammer, but still worked well despite its age. That wasn't what Mitch was hoping for, though. He didn't mean to hurt his horse; he didn't mean to try and jump a fence without training, and when Dale came home to find his younger brother's face torn up bloody with mud in the wounds, he learned what had happened. He got all the mud out of Mitch's face.

     “But I need him, Dale!”

     “You don't need him, but we needed him. Without a horse we won't be able to plow the fields, and if we don't plow we'll starve, or lose the farm, even.”

      The younger boy yanked hard on the weapon. “But momma said he would be my best friend forever!”

     “Horses don't live forever, Mitch. I'm sorry to tell you that, but they don't.” With a tap of his foot Dale shoved Mitch to the ground.

     The boy began to sob and with the bruises and scars he looked like quasimodo had fallen from the bell towers. Shades of black, blue, and violet scarred the upper half of his torso. Momma would be upset to see him like this.

     “I'm sorry, Mitch.” Dale said.

     “No, you're not. You never let me have a best friend!”

      Dale flinched with tears in his eyes. “That's not true. Remember when I bought you the fish, and then the gerbil?”

     “It is true, and your stupid cat ate all of those!”

    “What about me; aren't I your best friend?”

    “You never let me play with you, and I can't even sleep in your room!”

      Dale sighed. He looked down at the gun. It wasn't easy taking away a life. The tears, running past his brother's cheeks and bruises, crushed him inside, but with this horse injured, ruined, the only option was to save it from misery and go buy a new one. Papa would find Mitch a new, good horse. He was sure of it.

     “I don't ever mean to upset you, Mitch. You're my little brother, and I love you, but I need to put Maple out of his misery. You hear me?” He said.

     The boy looked down, still crying.

    “He was the best horse for what he was—”

    “Is! For what he is!”

    “Yes, he's a great horse. We can't just let him hurt so bad, though.”

     Mitch sniffed, wiped his face, but screamed when he touched the bandaged, torn skin.

    “Please don't be mad at me, please.” Dale lowered to one knee and placed his hand out. “I love him just as much as you do.”

     He didn't take his hand. Mitch looked into the young man's eyes with a fire that could've burned the house down. His attention turned to the hand, which was wet with tears and mud—the mud from Mitch's wounded face.

    “I don't want him to go, Dale.” He said.

    “Neither do I.”

     The grandfather clock ticked by the door. The house let out a groan as it settled in place.

     A tear ran from Dale's eyes.“Come on; think you can say bye to him one last time?”

     The stables were filled with the stench of manure and blood. Horses, cows, and two of the herding dogs each rested on a pile of their own hay behind the seperate doors. Whimpers escaped from the dogs, and the horses figited and nickered with quick, moving eyes.

     Dale pulled Mitch in past the door as it creaked open. Before they moved any further, the young man nudged the door closed with his boot and lifted the bolt handle on the rifle, loading it.

    Mitch flinched from the loud clack of the gun.

   “Easy there, kid.”

   “Sorry.” He said. Tears still dripped from his chin.

    The boys walked in further, but were stopped when the smell of putrid meat hit them in the nose. It wrinkled their faces, and Mitch began to choke when the sweetness hit the back of his throat.

   “It's infected; that's how it smells when a wound's infected.” Dale said.

   “What does it mean when it's infected?” Mitch asked.

   “Bad news.”

    They turned, and Mitch ran over to a stable door's lever. He lifted and slid it out from its slot, allowing the door to swing open.

    Rested on its side, in a pile of ruby hay, was a colt. The white socks on its feet were torn off with strands of fence wiring clung on. Its body, once covered with brown fur, had been stained black with blood and dirt, with rocks and thorns still poking out from the stomach. The young horse's chest lifted in swift breaths, and it cried out whenever it moved too much.

   “Jesus, Mitch. Where were you riding him?”

   “I saw that show where they jump horses over fences, so I wanted to try jumping him over the garden fence.”

    He winced. “Momma's going to be mad when she sees her roses.”

   “Please, please don't tell her.” Mitch said.

    Dale moved close to the horse, and kneeled down to look him over.

    The colt bucked and thrashed in the hay, and screamed when pain flared through its bandages of flesh.

   “Easy, boy. Easy there.” He said.

    Mitch stayed at the door, crying. He didn't notice the tears falling from Dale's eyes, or the way his hands, glued to the withered varmint rifle, shook with pale knuckles.

   A mare looked over the side of the stable, and winnied out when Dale would move in too close.

  “Mitch,” he said. “I want you to say bye to him, then go stand outside of the barn. You understand me?”

  “Yes, Dale.” He nodded his head. Try to be a big boy, his momma always would say. He walked up to the colt and gave a wave.

    The colt, its eyes wide and frantic, looked up to him with another cry.

   “I love you, Maple.” He said. Mitch turned around and ran out the stable door.

     Dale waited for a minute until he could see over the fence and watch the large, barn door swing open from above, then close. He aimed the gun at Maple.

     The horse looked up to him.

     Dale peered in the deep, black eyes and saw his brother: he saw the days spent feeding the young colt; he saw when Maple snuck into the garden to eat the apples, and Mitch was there to protect him; he saw the day the young horse was born, a day when they had pancakes for breakfast, and Mitch demanded they named him after the syrup.

    “I'm so sorry,” he said.

     Mitch ran from behind the stable wall, crying, towards the horse. “Maple!”

     Dale jumped, and fired a round into the colt's long face.

     Mitch screamed.

   “You shot him in the face!” He fell to his knees at the young horse's side. “You shot him in the face!”

   “Damn it!” Dale said. “I told you to wait outside. Why didn't you go outside?!”

   “You shot him in the face!”

    The small boy screamed when Maple's head flung up and caught his arm in the jaws of its snout. Blood coated his lower arm, and the colt cried out in pain, pulling and tugging on him.

    Dale watched as Mitch was dragged about from the cheekless, deformed creature, screaming.