Vyta Du Roc

My name is Vyta Du Roc, and I can smell blood. I know the smell of fresh blood well, it’s not unusual for horses like me to bleed from the nose after racing. We’re pushed to the point that our blood vessels burst. But the blood I can smell today is different. Some smells fresh, some smells old and decaying. I’m in an unfamiliar place and all I can tell from what I can see, hear, and smell, is that death lives here. 

I’ve travelled hundreds of miles to get here. Time on the road is something I’ve come to associate with racing. Usually, I’m unloaded into a busy racing paddock. But this is not a racecourse. I’m put into a small enclosure inside a larger building. They spray a number on me. My life has always been decided by numbers; what number I come in a race, what my betting odds are, the value of the prize money I win for the people who make me run and jump. This number is new though, and it’s the last number I’ll know. 

A man dressed in red has come for me, they’re taking me out of the room, towards the smell of blood. I’m 10 years old now and I’ve spent every one of those years in racing. I know to do as I’m told, so that’s what I do. I’m in the room where the smell is coming from now and the heavy door has been closed behind me. The man in red puts his hand on my nose. He raises a gun. The last thing I hear is a loud bang. 

My name was Vyta Du Roc. I was someone.