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“Do you blame yourself?” Gary’s therapist asked, looking up at him from her notes.
He blinked. “What do you mean?”
“It’s quite common for one to blame themselves in that situation,” she elaborated.
“What situation?”
“The accident,” she stated simply.
Gary’s repressed memories began to bubble up, and flashes of what he could remember appeared in his head. They rushed and came like the colors of a kaleidoscope twisting quickly. When the anxiety settled, he could finally recall the memory.
It was race day. Gary was around fourteen then, too young to be a registered jockey. His parents exploited his lightweight and naivety, using him as a free jockey. He’d found it fun, exhilarating even. He was pushing record times against jockeys decades older than him.
He remembered the racetrack. It was one of the most prominent tracks in the history of thoroughbred racing, Saratoga., also known as ‘The Graveyard of Champions.’
He was talking to his father, receiving a rushed pep talk before the race. Gary was more concerned with tucking his jockey silks into his breeches.
“And remember, don’t stop for anything. I don’t care if you gotta beat the hell out of his big ass. You win,” Mr. Smith told him firmly, reaching to squeeze Gary’s shoulders.
“Yes, sir,” Gary nodded as he wrestled away from his father.
Gary walked down the aisles of stalls, going to his horse.
On a stall on the left side was a gigantic chestnut thoroughbred stallion. The stud’s custom-made Aquaberry halter sported a gold plate with a name engraved, “Dignified Devil.”
“You ready, boy?’ Gary asked as he sidestepped his way in and attached a lead rope.
The stallion softly neighed in response to him as he was let out and attached to the crossties.
“Yeah, that’s the spirit,” he chuckled as he brushed him down.
Gary was one of the few jockeys to actually own the horse he rode. Many others were paid to hop on strange horses they didn’t know. He had that advantage. Gary knew what he was working with. He’d been Devil’s trainer for the last five years. Gary’s father had given him to the boy the day he was foaled, registering the stud’s ownership under his son’s name.
Gary had done a fine job training Devil as well. He was a very respectful horse, even to mares in season. He knew to mind Gary and other handlers. Gary had also succeeded in building Devil into a champion killer. The young stud had a running track record of mowing down previous set records and their title holders. He’d smoked a previous Triple Crown winner by nearly four lengths, all with Gary on his back and behind the scenes.
It also helped that he’d previously taken the Belmont Stakes by storm and earned Triple Crown status
.
However, Devil’s racing days would soon come to a close. Gary became more interested in the showjumping scene and was already collecting massive amounts of money from the stallion’s half-million stud fee. So far, he had one colt on the ground named Love Letters To Romeo.
Once Devil was properly tacked up, Gary used a mounting block to climb into the saddle. He sat in a W-position to get his feet in the stirrups. Gary clicked and ran his hands down the reins to tighten them as he grabbed a crop he’d likely never use.
He eased himself and Devil into starting gate number four, anticipating to spring up at any moment.
Overhead the announcer greeted the audience, introducing the competitors and the champion himself, Dignified Devil.
Gary closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He allowed himself to drift into the zone. His body hollowed and allowed him to feel weightless. Gary’s chest became a whirlpool for the blood his heart vigorously pumped.
Then the gates opened.
Gary didn’t remember much besides holding on tight and allowing Devil to do his thing. He could hear the wind blast in his ears as everything in his peripheral vision became blurred colors. He kept his eyes at a squint. Stray tears from the rapid acceleration steadily slipped back on his face. Nobody was ahead, beside, or anywhere close behind. He could hear the distant excitement of the announcer blare overhead. The crowd’s enthusiasm surrounded him like a satanic chant.
Something was wrong. Gary could feel it.
Devil didn’t move smoothly under him, even when Gary raised himself almost to a stand. Something was beginning to burden the stallion.
They crossed the finish line.
Before Gary could process it, he was falling toward the ground at 55 miles an hour.
The pain came as soon as his face made contact with the dusty turf.
What had him screaming was Devil's entire body rolling over and crushing him.
Gary couldn’t breathe even when the horse skidded off of him. His body panicked as it tried to desperately gulp in the air. His diaphragm and lungs stalled as they tried to function again. When they did, he unleashed the most blood-curdling scream as the horses behind came in, one trampling over his arm.
The entire track went quiet, spectating the tragedy while it unfolded on live television. All the while, camera workers tried to either zoom in or cut the program entirely.
Despite the agony, Gary managed to pull himself to crawl over to Devil. The closer he caught, the further his stomach and heart sank.
Devil wasn’t moving.
Gary cried out as he strung himself to drape over Devil’s chest. His head dropped down to listen for anything.
Not even a heart murmur echoed through the stallion’s body.
Gary began to hyperventilate, screaming incoherently through pain and heartbreak. He was dead. The only thing he loved and cared about was dead. It was all his fault. If Gary hadn’t been so persistent on this last race, Devil would be with Gary still. But no, Gary just had to be selfish like his father. He looked on, seeing Devil’s neck broken and twisted in a hurl-worthy angle, and as Gary moved his eyes forward, he could see the bloody bits of his right front canon bone strung across the track.
Gary didn’t remember anything beyond the scream sobbing. Black dots took his consciousness. Only after a week-long coma did he wake up. Only to be told that his equivalent to a child was dead. The doctors sedated him shortly after that. Gary had almost given himself a heart attack with the screaming and yelling.
Now Gary sat in his therapist’s office. At the grand age of twenty-two, sobbing over the trauma he never healed from.