Rows of white puffy cotton are beginning to peak out from the prickly clutches of the bud. I can see the anxiety on my faces as our hands get close to the buds. The quick pain of the prick is nothing compared to the lashing if the cotton is stained by blood. I can hear the songs mixing with the crack of the whip in the air.
I see our fears.
I see the trees closing in properties luring me to them. They reek of death and freedom. I can see myself running towards them, ignoring my own pleas to turn around. Before I reach the end of my row I watch a bullet tear itself threw my chest.
Tonight my body will be strung up on the trees to remind myself that death comes to those who dream.