Lifetime

By Rebecca Morgan

Women in colorful, gay dresses. Men in Panama hats and suits. The sweet aroma of cigars. The heady odor of dirt and fresh white paint. The sights and sounds and scents of the Kentucky Derby assault my nostrils. Make my head spin. I tremble.

Jason pats my side, stroking his fingers through my mane. I still under his touch, knowing what he is asking of me. Be calm. We’ll get through this.

Him and me. Us. It’s always been us. Since he first mounted me when I was a colt at three and we won every race that gained me entrance to the Kentucky Derby.

We won that too.

The delicate fragrance of roses reaches me and I dissolve into it. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the wreath they put around my neck, as if I were a king. For a time, I was. Everyone wanted foals sired by me. My pictures flooded magazines and newspapers.

But time doesn’t slow and my body betrayed me. The name Fast Heart doesn’t grace people’s lips anymore. I’m here today in honor of my glory days. For my owner, Peter Strand, and in memory of his son, Ethan.  I can still remember him as he cackled and cooed upon my back, an old horse delighting his world. Small hands pulled my mane and I tossed it, again and again, his laughter radiant as sunshine. It was a game for only us.

Jason mounts me, but I can hardly tell, small as he is. Around us, other jockeys mount their own steeds, muscles rippling beneath sleek and shiny coats. Jealousy burns in my chest, yearning for the chance to race one time more. A real race, not one between the fellow horses in Strand’s padlock or the conceited yearlings coming into their own. I want to be in a race with people cheering me on. My body may be old and broken, but the pulsing desire is still there.

One by one I help lead the trembling horses to the starting gate, where men in uniforms lock them into the wide interior. They spare me no look. I am no longer something to idolize. Who was my own guide? My own calm in the storm in my day?

I don’t remember. I don’t even remember seeing him, a defeated, hopeless horse who once had the world at his feet. Or was he just a plain ordinary horse who wished he could race?

The heightened frenzy makes strands of my mane stand on end before a hush settles over the crowd like a blanket. Not even the flies annoy us as they wait in eager expectation.

The bell above chimes. The gates are flung open like a gunshot and the horses are off even faster. The voice above booms, “and there they go!” It rattles off names, positions, and leads. Men whoop, women cheer.  The air vibrates with the tension.

My heart aches, watching as the dirt splays underneath their feet.

The crowd cheers, claps, cries.

My legs tremble.

Jason pats me. “I know Fast Heart, I know. I miss us too.”

I cannot stand it.

I want to race.

To run.

To feel the wind in my mane. The ground disappearing beneath my feet.

To once more be cheered on and not deemed old and useless. A calm horse for children to ride.

For it to be just Jason and me once more.

I leap forward, sending the men moving the starting gate scrambling for cover. Jason curses.

“Fast Heart!” Jason pulls on the reins but I ignore the bit. The command. Throw caution to the wind. The back ends of my competitors are not a sight I’m used to seeing. I run, muscles burning from lack of use. My chest aches. Lungs expand for air, air, air.

I pass one. Then two. Horses glare at me, the interloper, as they strain to win this race they’ve longed for, dreamed of. A true once-in-a-lifetime chance. But it’s more than a race for me. I’m not here to win; I’m here to run.

Just five ahead. Other jockeys hurl names at Jason but they’ll be eating my dung when we win this race.

“Fast Heart,” Jason pleads, and I almost stop but the crowd is wild. I hear the voice above call my name again and again and again. And it feels good. So wonderful.

I gallop on.

Two more horses.

“Fast Heart,” I hear Jason whisper in my ear, a loving caress. I can feel, now, that he has given me free rein as he leans into me. We are as one, each knowing what the other wanted without asking. How I’ve missed this. We come into the stretch, only one more horse between me and victory.

I stretch my neck out, heart yearning, muscles weak and shaky like I was so long ago as a newborn. I throw myself into it, feeling sick, lathered with sweat.

We cross the line.

My ears ring, I hear the voice above boom my name as Jason slides off me, delight on his face. Cameras come. Peter Strand with wetness on his face. By all this, I know I won. I won a race no horse has ever won twice.

My chest heaves. My legs collapse and I let myself fall, the ground coming to meet me. Jason cries out my name as the voice above goes silent. The crowd stacked on top of each other stops chanting my name.

The world grows dark and cold.

I can’t feel Jason weaving his hands through my mane or his tears as they rain on my cheek. My breath comes in quick gasps as the world closes in. Peter Strand kneels beside me and I remember his son.

I hope I did them both proud today.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rebecca Morgan began her writing journey by scribbling on a page—and being incredibly proud of her “stories.” Years later, she has had several works of short fiction published. You can find her work in Havok’s World Tour and Legendary anthologies. Rebecca aims to write stories that show healing through the power of story and help the brokenhearted. Besides writing, Rebecca loves the works of J.R.R. Tolkien, cooking, blue oceans, salsa, and all things apothecary.

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