Lost in fields of opium and daggers, with red grass too tall to provide any real sense of safety. Above me, below me, around me. Red.
On my hands. Staining my clothes. Dried under my fingernails. Caked on the gun.
This was the fifth time they’d sent people, and I expected it’d be the last. These ones knew about us. They knew where we hid the money, where we hid the drugs, where we had come from, and most importantly, that we didn’t do it.
Our guilt was of no consequence to them, however, and it was kill or be killed.
We had spent over half a year building our life away from this. We had moved from the place we loved, we had given up our friends and family for the chance at a life together. Somehow we knew it’d end like this. We knew they wouldn’t forget us.
At least we were together. At least we could die holding hands.
If I could find her in the grass before they found us.
(The older I get, the less I understand how people cope with their dreams. How am I supposed to go out and interact with people tonight, when I just spent the last five months in a place of pain and loss? The fact that it didn’t happen in the way that ‘real things’ happen makes it no easier for me to deal with. I was there. I lived, I ate, I slept, I felt. It was as real and immersive to me as this waking world is now.)