There is a horse in my bedroom: Difference between revisions

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We both hunger for knowledge. We both hunger for a solution.
 
He’sHe's just as confused as I am, perhaps even more. God knows he probably understands even less of this situation than I do.
 
Behind those dumb animal eyes I see a yearning to be anywhere else but here. This horse should be somewhere out in a meadow, or sleeping in a stable. He shouldn’tshouldn't be on the seventh floor of an apartment complex. He doesn’tdoesn't deserve this fate.
 
My temper might be bad, and I do rush to speaking without proper thought, but I don’tdon't think I deserve this fate either.
 
I have repented for my sins yet, each and every night, the horse still wakes me from my dreamless sleep.
 
He’sHe's looking down on me right now as I write this impotent reddit post. I can feel the heat of his snout on the back of my neck.
 
I am a proud man, and it pains me to ask for help, but this strange corner of the internet is my last bastion of hope.
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Walking past the dark gothic structures, seeing the results of nigh a thousand years of civilization, it all brought a sense of calm into my soul. What further pleased me were the obnoxiously colored signs advertising tourist traps.
 
For years I have hated how the specter of revenue has twisted our culture to normalize ‘massage'massage parlors’parlors' next to cathedrals and stomach churning ‘pub'pub-crawls’crawls' in quiet residential areas, yet the return of the tacky advertisements signaled something more than an utter lack of taste— they signaled the return of the tourist industry.
 
Prior to the plague I worked as a tour guide. The past year has not been easy, but all of the pain has been muffled beneath a promise that things would one day return to normal. The man covered in silver paint pretending to be a mute Michael Jackson in front of the 15th century astronomical clock was a sign of that promise being fulfilled.
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I saw the horse.
 
It stood in the old town square, right next to a towering statue of a priest who was burned alive for criticizing the Catholic Church. The horse was harnessed to a carriage covered in fake gold and fake velvet. No amount of tacky decoration could hide the animal’sanimal's pain. It was dripping spit on the cobbled streets, breathing breaths that seemed terminal.
 
All memories of the pleasant aspects of the tourism industry fled from my mind and were replaced by the specter of summer heat. The burning sun, the seared tan-lines of name badges, that eternal search for shade that would never be satisfied — reflected in that poor animal’sanimal's eyes I saw the worst of the tourism industry. Yet I willingly subjected myself to the exhaustion that the brutal summer months bring, I walked the streets with my name-badge branding my red skin.
 
I had a choice.
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An American family with a screaming child approached the horse. I recognized the looks on their faces.
 
‘Don’t'Don't sign up for the horse carriage ride!' I yelled, in English.
 
The family froze, even the child found me more interesting than whatever it was crying about. Yet the look in their eyes wasn’twasn't welcoming. To them I was just a random person screaming on the street.
 
‘Sorry'Sorry,' I said, reaching into my jacket for my name badge, ‘I'I used to be a tour guide. We’reWe're very passionate about these things. Horse carriage rides around the old town are not authentic at all and most locals see them as tourist traps. If you have a map I can point out an authentic restaurant for you.'
 
The name badge always does the trick, and the word authentic always clinches it. As soon as I pointed out a nearby restaurant the child remembered its misfortune and started to weep again. The American couple thanked me and set off on a search of good authentic goulash.
 
From behind his blinders the horse looked at me. His exhausted eyes didn’tdidn't carry a hint of comprehension, yet somehow it seemed as if the beast understood I had saved it from excess labor. He let out a long sigh. The shivering in his muscles died down.
 
The astronomic clock beat its ancient bell and trotted out its five hundred year old puppet show. The universe seemed at peace. I felt good about myself.
 
That didn’tdidn't last.
 
“What"What the fuck was that?!" came a shout in the local tongue, “Why"Why the fuck would you scare off my customers like that?!"
 
He emerged from behind his carriage, furious. His skin was rough; the years had made themselves known on his face. He had lived through Brezhnev, possibly even a couple years of Khrushchev. Had I met the man in regular clothes, in some smoky pub, I would have ran. My tender bones born into tender democracy are no match for someone who went through the struggle.
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Yet that evening I did not run.
 
The angry carriage driver’sdriver's clothes looked like they were the result of a torrid affair between a modern day magician and a member of Austro-Hungarian royalty. The top hat covered in sequence made the man significantly less intimidating— it emboldened me even.
 
“You"You shouldn’tshouldn't do that to horses," I said, with more confidence than I usually had arguing with strangers, “What"What you’reyou're doing to this horse should not be legal."
 
“The"The fuck else am I meant to do with a horse? It’sIt's an animal. It was born to work. I feed it. It drags around the tourists and then I get to feed my family. The horse is fucking lucky it’sit's not salami, but here come you with your sunflower morals."
 
The man came within striking distance. Suddenly his magical clothes weren’tweren't so calming.
 
“Can’t"Can't you see the animal is in pain?" I asked, tapping the horse’shorse's tense shoulder. The beast let out the gentlest of neighs in response to my touch.
 
“Get"Get your fucking hands off my animal."
 
I could smell the brand of cigarettes on his breath. Startky, the cancer sticks of a country that no longer exists.
 
“But"But can’tcan't you see the animal is in pain?"
 
“So"So what? Life is pain. Every morning I wake up with a headache and a sore back, who the fuck is looking out for me? No one. But that’sthat's fucking life. This is my goddamn livelihood and you’reyou're fucking with it. Get the fuck out of here before I deck you."
 
The carriage driver didn’tdidn't wait for a response. He simply gave me a light shove, landed my tailbone on the cobblestone and stomped off. Once he reached his carriage he produced a pack of cigarettes from beneath his hat and lit up.
 
“Fucking"Fucking liberals," he grumbled to himself.
 
I sat there on cobble stone laid a hundred years prior, watching the perfect midpoint between the men that promote strip clubs and the men that promote concert halls angrily smoke. The astronomical clock finished off its show and a handful of disappointed travelers started to make their way back home to their hotels. I should have gone home too.
 
But I couldn’tcouldn't.
 
Those tired dull eyes, that dripping spit; the majestic animal that hovered over me wouldn’twouldn't let me rest. I couldn’tcouldn't walk away without getting one last jab in. Without knowing what I was about to say, I decided to let the carriage driver know how I felt about him.
 
“Well"Well, I still think you’reyou're a bad person," I said, getting up. “If"If I had a horse I would treat him much nicer."
 
Since that evening I have spent a lot of time thinking about that phrase. I don’tdon't know why I said it. I don’tdon't know why I felt the need to bring up the hypothetical of me owning a horse. Perhaps it was the lack of social contact throughout the plague; perhaps I simply wanted to reassert to myself that I was a kinder human than the carriage driver, yet regardless of my motivations, I said it.
 
If I had a horse I would treat him much nicer.
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I was a fool to think the cosmos would not answer.
 
“Be"Be careful what you wish for," he said, puffing on his cigarette.
 
The reddened sky of the setting sun had faded away, a starless night had painted itself above us. Beneath the lamp light the carriage driver no longer looked absurd. He stood on cobbled streets once soaked in blood, dressed like something out of a toddler’stoddler's nightmare — yet he no longer looked absurd. With the ancient stone of the mother of all cities around him, he looked right at home.
 
“The"The fuck you looking at?" he said.
 
“Nothing"Nothing," I replied.
 
Not wanting to get shoved again, I made my way back home.
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The eyes. The muzzle. The confusion.
 
The afterimage of the horror stayed with me as the room descended back into darkness. I was almost certain that it was the animal’sanimal's long snout that tipped over the lamp. I was almost certain that there was a live horse standing in my cramped bedroom, but I refused to accept the idea.
 
The flashlight on my phone was meant to ease my mind, yet when I reached for the jeans lying by my bed I found another reason to be worried. Instead of grasping at cloth my fingers rubbed up against a rough surface.
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The horse was real. There was no escaping it.
 
The horse was real and it wasn’twasn't in my room anymore.
 
Immediately I unplugged my table lamp and seized it as a weapon. The thought of the barnyard animal hiding somewhere in the apartment caused my blood to grow cold and jagged. Each room held the potential for the animal to be doing further damage to the home I was renting. Each door I opened rushed images of getting trampled to death into my mind.
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Yet no horse presented itself.
 
The damage and excrement were only contained to my cramped bedroom. The rest of the apartment was spotless, or, as spotless as the apartment of someone who’swho's unemployed for a prolonged period of time can be. Either way, there were no signs of the horse entering, exiting, or even standing anywhere outside of my bedroom.
 
I threw the glass shards of my lamp into the trash and scooped up the excrement into an old McDonald’sMcDonald's take-out bag. Not wanting to risk bumping into my neighbors in the elevator, I elected to keep the putrid fast-food container on the balcony.
 
Removing the excrement from my floor made the stench less potent, but regardless of how much of a breeze I forced through the room it still stank of manure.
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The horse screamed, confused and uncomfortable.
 
The sound of broken strings and cracked wood cut through the bedroom. My guitar, my one way of channeling the anxious year of quarantine into art— it lay broken at the horse’shorse's hooves.
 
NEEEEIIIIIGH!
 
The animal bounced its heavy body against the floorboards in frustration. The whole room shifted. From beneath the floor an angry broom responded to the animal’sanimal's stomps.
 
NEEEEIIIGHHH!
 
“Horse"Horse! Stop it!" I whispered to the animal, letting my fear of homelessness overpower my fear of the foreign beast, “Shhhh"Shhhh! Please. No one can know you’reyou're here."
 
Neeeigh!
 
“Horse"Horse, please."
 
Neigh.
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The animal calmed, as if it understood my words, as if it wanted to work together to get out of this horrid curse we were both stuck in. Yet no progress was made. I spent the night staring at the horse, trying to find some semblance of reason within its eyes, but my search was fruitless.
 
We faced off well into the first rays of sun, man and beast, both searching for answers to their respective predicaments. My willingness to stare off with the horse soon came to a close, however. As we searched each other’sother's eyes for a way out, the horse defecated again.
 
My soul churning confusion and fear soon turned to disgust. I made my way to the McDonald’sMcDonald's take-out bags to once again lessen the presence of manure in my bedroom. By the time I came back, as if the horse had rode off on the rays of the rising sun, the animal was gone.
 
I did not waste time on self-pity this time. Immediately I messaged every person in my contacts who I thought could help me. I did so with the utmost hope that someone would provide advice, that someone would tell me I have not gone mad— yet no such thing happened.
 
Most of my friends are tour-guides, or perhaps more accurately were tour guides. With the badge not holding us together we have all drifted apart into unanswered ‘Message'Message seen’seen' territory. All my other points of contact either avoided my message entirely or wrote back to me with jokes.
 
I knew the horse would return at midnight. Without a shred of doubt I was certain that the mysterious animal would appear in my bedroom again, but I did nothing to brace for its arrival. I simply laid in bed, motionless, waiting for the inevitable barnyard intrusion on my rented home.
 
The sun set, the children outside stopped playing. I knew I should prepare, that I should at least ensure that nothing on my floor can be destroyed by the animal’sanimal's hooves, but the absurdity of my situation left me paralysed.
 
The snapping of electronics rung in the arrival of midnight.
 
My phone charger didn’tdidn't stand a chance against the beast’sbeast's hooves.
 
As I write these words the horse is looking at me. In the dying light of my phone screen I can see its bulging eyes look to me for guidance. I have none. I am just as confused as he is.