Beefy's story: Part 1
#1 of Beefy the Bull's Story
Beefy's story: Part 1
By: Beefy the Bull
Remembering can hurt.
This story is Beefy's, from his point of view. Unfortunately a lot (not all thankfully) of this installment of the story is based on real life events. It's only as harsh as real life. No further warnings.
Anthros are very uncommon in this world, and not too well accepted. Beefy is a brown furred Minotaur of unknown parentage, who was discovered at a young age living in one of the pastures of a farm in the south eastern United States. His name was given as a joke by several drunk farm hands, but it remained with him through his own ignorance.
My first memories were of my mother. The big black and white dairy cow. And the beautiful meadows next to the woods, the warm barn in the cold winter nights. A light mist to frolic in on a cool fall morning.
But it was all stained by later happenings. No good memory could be thought of without dredging up the accompanying bad ones. Like my Uncle. It was like he and the others re-wrote themselves in to all my old memories, even the ones before I realized how poorly they were treating me, even back when I still looked up to them. When I thought of mother- Them. The meadow by the woods- them. Warm barn- them. And I can't think of them without beer bottles in hand, but the memories of them drunk are so strong, just an all too common occurrence -it infected all others.
There were so many shameful things to remember. How could I have been so ignorant? So naive? So childish? I hate myself for it, for allowing myself to be taught like an animal, tricks like one might a dog. I remember some of the words I spoke from my ignorance, and they bring me such pain. I remember the naive things I thought and did, and it hurts deep inside. I remember the child-like things I did when I was young, and I regret them. I humiliated myself out of ignorance time and time again.
Farm hands- more like drunk hill people-were collectively my care takers and teachers until I was about five years old, then I was more or less adopted by the farmers family, who lived in a nice house on the corner of the property. It had a pool and a garage, and was a beautiful old blue farm house, with a stout roof to hold the snow. I was given a small room with a little bed, it had a window looking out over the quiet yard, and a big closet in the far corner of the room. Aunty and uncle taught me how to dress up in clothes, and talk properly despite the speech impediment of a mouth not made for English.
But it wasn't a walk in the park. There were plenty of devices to discipline a child in that house. Leather belts, coat hangers, fly swatters, open or closed hands, dish soap even. I didn't know it was abuse to be hit until I bled. Half the times I didn't know what I had done wrong. I didn't know to be starved wasn't a good punishment for a calf. I remember hiding in a tool shed for most of the day, scared to be seen by any of the farm hands. I didn't know it wasn't normal to be screamed at and intimidated for no good reason. Like once at dinner , while we sat around the table,( I could have only been eight or nine years old) I was foolish enough to ask in the presence of the drunk farmer I know as Uncle, what day it was. He became so angry and ordered me to his side, he pointed at the calendar on the wall, and told me to tell him what day it was, but I couldn't, I just did not know. He grabbed me so hard with his hands, his finger nails tore my hide, it hurt bad, I ran and hid in a space behind the couch and the wall, blood running down my back. He simply told me to go to my room hungry, and continued to eat. I decided it was better to stay in my room when I could. The screaming and yelling that Uncle did when in a drunken rage, throwing things about, breaking things, and tearing down any and every one else-suddenly aunty was a bad wife and a bitch, or his children were stupid and worthless fuck ups. To this day when I hear someone yelling angrily, I flinch.
I remember how tough life was back then, but my ignorance allowed me to think it was nothing, normal even. Wrapped in my blanket and standing on a tree stump, tending the pump for a few hours on a cold winter night, as it was "important that the pump not run dry". I had to stand out on the cold November nights and watch the pump to make sure it had no blockages, and clear them if one formed. So I stood in the cold dark, watching my breath create a fog in the air and looked through the windows of the house, where the lights were on, a fire burned, and the heater hummed. I could sometimes see the people on the couch watching television. I just tried to think of the things I would be able to do once I was allowed to return inside, warm bright rooms, television, books. I liked to read when I could, I loved books about adventures and pirates and faraway places. The books were definitely better than the television.
Usually before Uncle came home I was already done with schooling, and had time in the house without his over whelming presence, and I could watch TV without being yelled at. When I heard his truck coming up the driveway, my heart would race, adrenalin would pump, I turned off the television quickly, fixed the chairs so he wouldn't know I had been there, and cleaned up any mess or any of my toys, then fled to my room, where I would hide in the closet and play quietly by myself for hours. I wouldn't leave until I was called for dinner, and had no choice but to go down to the table.
I was twelve years old when I first lost my will to live. I had been given a blanket to keep myself warm with at nights or on cold days, and wrapped in it, I was walking in one of the fields on a cold fall day. And I felt the pain and emotions that I was never taught to deal with burst forth, and it hurt. I didn't know what it was, but it hurt so bad, I could feel my insides twisting in pain. I just dropped to the crunchy frozen grass where I had stood, and looked in to the clear blue sky, and begged to God to kill me. It wouldn't be the last time. 'Still my heart and stop my breath.' I prayed silently as I cried inside. Nothing happened, God hated me, he wanted me to suffer, or he didn't hear me. So I decided then to take things in to my own hands, I got up and walked in to the shadow of one of the old abandoned sheds on the property, and took off my blanket folded it up nicely, and sat down on it, watching the sun set, knowing that temperatures would drop ten below freezing with the coming of night. After an hour passed, cold and scared I gave up and returned to the house, shaking from cold, fear, and sadness. I didn't want to hurt Mama's feelings- if I died, she would be so sad. I was scared to, Aunty and Uncle had taught me all about God, the bible, and Heaven and hell- if you kill yourself you go directly to hell to burn for eternity. So I cried that night, and from that night on, I grew more depressed and apathetic with every day.
Then I found out about radios. When I was thirteen I was given my first radio, it was an alarm-clock-radio hand-me-down, and I played with it, and began to listen to music, and soon I was listening to music as I read every day, when I was finished with home schooling. Aunty bought me books from the store that cost only a dollar, they had pictures on every other page that went along with the story. I could read and look at the picture for that page, and it was wonderful. And country music was wonderful.
Then I found a new type of music on one radio station- metal. It was a forbidden pleasure- listened to with a closed door and volume on a very low setting. I knew Aunty and Uncle wound not approve at all of this type of music, but it had such power, it spoke to me, with words about life death and the feelings I couldn't define inside myself. It was truly powerful music.
But soon things spiraled out of control, Uncle lost his job, and started drinking even more than before. Aunty was working three jobs, and was never around while Uncle sat at home in a angry and drunk depression. I started to go to a small local school, but everyone made fun of me, threw things at me, and no one talked to me unless they wanted to torment me. I was still so naive, I wanted to be a quiet and nice little calf, and do what I was told, but the other students found me a play thing, tripping me in the halls, and throwing food at me during lunch. I felt so torn down, I had no will to live.
Someone once told me depression is anger turned inwards- I must hate myself so much.
I didn't bother turning on the lights, I didn't care if I got cold, I didn't talk to anyone for days. I felt so alone, I had no friends. Aunty was always working and she was one of the few who I felt cared about me. For years it was like that, hardly any food, because we had no money- while somehow we always had money for lots of beer. I would stay up late and clean the kitchen for Aunty, so she would feel better when she returned home from work. But it was hard all the way around, all the other children at school were from rich families, and had new bikes and clothes, and even cell phones, and even TV's and computers in their own rooms! I couldn't afford food for lunch, or the four dollars to join the chess club at school. It felt so wrong, other students took such things for granted, and still complained. It just seemed like they were all so spoiled to me.
But when I turned fifteen things for me changed for the better!
A man from a special school for 'gifted' and 'different' children came to Uncle and Aunty, and said they would pay my way to go to this great school. I didn't understand why they would want someone like me, but I didn't really think about such things at the time. At first I took a bus ride to school and back every day, but finally the school gave me a dorm room to live in. I liked it, it was in the basement of one of the buildings, and had concrete block walls, painted and repainted time again in the cheap white paint that was common in most of the class rooms. It had a big mirror on one wall, and a very small window high up on another wall. There was a toilet, sink, and shower plumbed in an alcove in one wall- it all looked like left over stainless steel fixtures from a prison. A bunk bed made of steel was in one corner of the room and a desk with chair in the other, next to the metal door. And that was it besides my radio clock, some of my books, and the blanket I brought from home to keep warm.
School was hard as home some times, not that I didn't like school, they had a library with so many books on so many things- and I had a cool room to myself. But I was so different from the other students, they made fun of me, tripped me in the halls, or stole my school supplies. Sometimes I even got beaten up, I just didn't want to hurt anyone, and was still so young. I had to learn more than the others, because I hadn't had such a good education as the rest of them. I was told by the teachers that if I didn't understand something, it was ok, because they gave me different tests then the rest of the class. Students made fun of me because I took the "dumb tests".
Although I was technically the same age as the other students, for a bull that lives longer, I was also technically younger, and socially not as mature. I kept to myself and had very few class mates. Most other boys were interested in sports and such things, but I wasn't, and knew nothing about such subjects. Most of the time I simply could not connect with other students. However, I also met my first and only friend I had at school. He was a boy by the name of Jack. Jack was like me in a lot of ways, he was quiet, not well accepted by the other children, and liked to read about some of the same things I did. But he was also different, his parents were rich, and he was spoiled. He had anything he wanted, every time he wanted it. But that was ok, he was fun to talk to and was the best friend I had ever had.
And it was in school that I started to come of age. I had been to the 'sex education' class, and it was embarrassing, but informative. But it didn't help any because it was all about humans, and had nothing to do with young bulls. The science teacher in charge of me was a nice man, and he after that class, he took me in to a empty room in the basement of the science building where I lived and filled me in on what he knew about breeding cattle. I was very shy at the time, and it was very embarrassing.
I knew god frowned upon sex before marriage, but I wasn't sure how that applied to me. My guess was that I would be placed with a female, and it would be about the same as being married. but in order to not be a sinner, I decided to not think or do anything about sex, females , or any of that mess, it would all be perfect for me and fall in to place when God decided it was time, or so I thought. So I avoided conversations, people, or anyone that brought up that crude topic.
Not only did that not help, but it got worse, when I realized I was more interested in the human boys in the school rather than females, much less cows- the teacher had already warned me to not have sex with humans. I found myself yearning to see the other boys nude, my curiosity about it was strong, and it was scary, it horrified me. Aunty had taught me about God and sin, and faggots were disgusting and evil sinners that God hated. I couldn't be like that. Besides that, gays were weak and not masculine- the slang word for something un-cool was gay, someone who was weak or lame was a 'faggot'. And homosexuality was just something that shouldn't happen, it wasn't natural, it was wrong. How had I inadvertently decided to be a sinner, a evil person? I had to be straight, I couldn't be in to humans, much less males.
I tried so hard to be straight. I forced myself to not think about males. But I couldn't keep my hormones in check, and after a week of ignoring, forgetting and avoiding, I was incredibly horny, and inevitably I would pleasure myself- a sin in itself- worse yet-while thinking of males. When I had release after such an event I felt so ashamed. So bad, so disgusting and unclean- How could I have had such thoughts, and done such evil deeds? I would pray on my knees for forgiveness for almost an hour after, and then cry myself to sleep in shame. I was a weak and filthy faggot.
After that happened a few times, I forced myself to masturbate to the thought of females, and tried to ignore the thoughts of males that slipped in. I even masturbated more regularly in order to prevent the overpowering homosexual fantasies from building up. That worked ok for a while, but still I felt ashamed about myself, and always tried to find a way to fix my deviation. I remember when I was back home talking with Aunty and Uncle and they would talk about how disgusting faggots were. How what they did was disgusting, and they were glad 'none of those' lived around here. I nodded in agreement, but inside I cried, because I realized they hated me, they just didn't know it. I also realized if Uncle ever found out he would kill me. I knew he would shoot me dead with his revolver. Now I was a liar too.
I had my first sexual 'experience' with someone else when I was at school. One weekend I was invited over to Jack's dorm room to spend the night. He had found a way to watch a pornography video on his television, and so he lay on the bottom bunk as I climbed up in to the top bunk. He played the video and removed his clothes, and as he began to masturbate to the porn, I carefully and slowly leaned over the edge of the bunk- just enough to watch him without him being able to see me. I watched in fascination as he stroked and touched himself, and fantasized about being the one that was pleasuring him. Once he was finished I lay back in my bunk, unable to sleep, horrendous sexual thoughts of him flittering through my mind. And once I found relief, I felt the greatest sense of disgust and shame in myself.
Then things moved up a notch. The stress was compounded, as I felt so bad, and not only had God made me a fag, but a lonely and depressed one. I just didn't want to exist anymore. But God also didn't want me to kill myself, and he wouldn't kill me, he must have wanted me to suffer. I started to get angry at him. Why? Why did I have to hurt so bad every day? I slowly stopped caring and started to play roulette with my life, when I crossed streets, I didn't look if cars were coming, I liked to walk on the rail road tracks (but I always lost my nerve when a train approached).
After a year at the new school I was so much smarter, I went back to the farm, and visited Aunty and Uncle, they were proud of me, how much smarter I was, how I was a good Christian. I just agreed, even though I knew I wasn't a Christian any more, and that they would hate me if they knew my secret.
I went to go visit Mama, but couldn't find her anywhere. I searched frantically, in tears afraid I wouldn't be able to see Mama, I ran to the barn and asked a farm hand if they had seen Mama, and one told me she had been sold to another farm. I was so angry, sad and relieved at the same time, one of the farm hands was able to give me a scrap of paper with the details written on it, a farm name and basic address. I took off down the road, mostly angry that Mama was sold.
I found the farm that Mama was sold to. That day I learned a new understanding of what beef was. It wasn't just some packaged meat product. It was the bodies of cows and bulls that had been executed, then cut up. The place smelled horribly of blood, of fear, and I ran far to the woods, and I didn't stop. when I did it was night fall, and then the truth set in. Mama was dead. They sold her to a slaughter house, who executed her, hung her corpse on a hook, then tore her apart. Some parts were packaged, other parts just thrown away, all so someone could have a 99 cent hamburger at some faceless fast food place. I cried tears of true misery, the pain hurt inside even more now.
"MAA-MAAAAA..." I cried to the heavens, my cracking voice echoing in the dark wooded valley, and ringing through the frosty air. I fell to my back, landing in dry gold and brown leaves, my teary eyes afforded a glimpse of the stars in the heavens over head, I heaved clouds of breath in the crisp cold air. " Mama..." I whispered as my tear froze to the ground.
If God was real I didn't care if I burned in hell, I wanted nothing to do with him- and I hoped he knew it.