Pepelito could barely bring himself to take another step. With every move he made, the sharp stabbing pains in his shoulders got worse. With every breath he became dizzier; none of the air seemed to go into his lungs. The sand was getting into his feet. And he was so thirsty.

A short distance away, someone in a glittery outfit was holding out a red cape. Pepelito took a few steps forward and then stopped. He put his head down between his legs and felt the pain lessen momentarily. He could not hold it up any more. He was feeling faint; all he wanted to do was go back to his field and eat grass. That life had now become a distant memory.

'Don't you want to charge? Why not, huh?' the man with the cape taunted him, waving the material in front of his tired eyes. Maybe if he did somehow get him to go away, then all the pain would stop. He could not think about anything else.

He took another step forward, kicking up dust. The human spectators watching in the stands started clapping and cheering wildly. It was hot. Blood dripped down his back; his panting breaths were ragged. And then he glimpsed the metal glinting in the man's hand.

Something was telling Pepelito not to go near him.

With difficulty, he turned around. Every step was an agony. There seemed to be no escape from this place. The door had disappeared. He was trapped.

He twisted his neck as far as the barbs embedded in his back let him. The man with the cape was approaching him. From the way he walked, the way he moved, Pepelito knew he was another guy who was trying to hurt him. There were so many of them and they all came and went from nowhere.

Somehow, he had to get out.

He took a step backwards, panting.

'Come here, toro,' the man said, clicking his tongue. Pepelito ignored him and forced himself to run. The smell of blood was overpowering. Where was everyone? What happened to his friend? Something bad! He pushed past the pain and forced himself to jump upwards, his neck feeling like it was on fire, his feet bleeding.

As he climbed up the stone steps towards the back of the ring, people started screaming. One man grabbed his tail and tugged it hard. He felt a kick in his side. Someone grabbed one of the sticks in his back and pressed down hard. He was slipping on his own blood. He couldn't breathe. He had to get to the top. Maybe if he got to the top, he could jump out. Yet, with every step he felt fainter. As he climbed higher up the steps, people backed away in fear and disgust.

It was too high for him to jump from the top of the stands to the street. Everything hurt too much. No help was coming. He recognised the voice of the man with the cape, who was coming up the stairs with a huge sword in his hand. Pepelito smelt the blood in the air. Who was it from? Probably his own. Trembling, he began to walk backwards down the stairs - towards the man.

He couldn't go near him.

'Javier might finish it off here in the stands, what a finale, seems determined to go up himself,' someone said, snatching at his tail and trying to twist it. Disorientated, Pepelito looked around and licked a puddle on the steps that had been an ice cream. People gasped. It was the first thing he'd had to drink since yesterday.

'This is what I come for, such drama in a corrida. Such emotion and beauty,' another man replied breathlessly as they watched the scene. Pepelito stared, exhausted, not knowing where he was. As he approached their row of seats, the two spectators backed away and stood up, terrified.

But what was this?

A flight of stairs led from the stands to the street below. And the door was open. It hurt so much. With every movement he felt himself growing weaker, but he had to try. Pepelito launched himself down the stairs towards the open door to the street, not caring what was in his way. His feet weren't designed for the hard concrete floors. His aching hooves scraped against the ground. But he had to run, had to keep moving, had to find somewhere safe.

Anywhere was better than there.

He could hear human footsteps behind him.

Oh no. There were a few of them. They were shouting. One of them threw a bottle at him. A rope brushed his neck as they tried to catch him with it. He couldn't let them. He had to run. A child screamed something from a balcony, shock or excitement he couldn't tell. Something caught on his foot, a stone, but he couldn't stop running, or they'd bring him back there.

In spite of the agony he was in, he forced himself onwards through the blazing heat. Had he lost them? He looked to the side, flinching, his horns getting in the way of his vision. He couldn't lift his head up very high. But maybe. Maybe there was somewhere quiet he could go and rest and try to get these thorns out or whatever they were.

And then he saw it.

One of the doors along the street was open. As he got closer, he saw there was a green mat on the ground that looked like grass but was much scratchier. He was so exhausted and in so much pain that turning off into the passage took all his effort. Walking onto the shiny floor, he skidded, fell over and everything hurt too much to try and get up. Suddenly a woman with long black hair was shouting and screaming. She dropped the pile of clothes she was carrying.

'Fuera,' she yelled, her voice panicked and angry. 'Think you can come in and just nick whatever you want? You've come to the wrong house, you -'

'Oh. Oh. You poor, poor creature.'

She walked towards him, her voice softened. She sounded shocked rather than terrified, speaking half to herself as Pepelito lay on the floor. 'Dios mio. You're bleeding, poor innocent bull...'

She knelt down beside him and patted his side very gently, staring with tears in her eyes at the darts stuck in his back. 'Evil. How could someone enjoy this? These horrible things, I want to take them out. But I'm scared of trying, pobrecito. I don't want to hurt you even more.'

Pepelito mooed in agony and tried to back away, defend himself, but his muscles were giving out. The woman touched him again, but he barely realised with the stinging stabs in his back. As she got her phone out, he stretched onto the ground, exhausted and unable to move.

'Dios mio. I have to find a vet.'