The cold metal felt nice, my headache softly pounding behind my eyes almost in time with the steady engine of the zeppelin as it lit through the cloudy sky. We’d reach Agona soon and we knew that. An involuntary sigh left me at that, the quiet of my cell resonating the melancholy ache and looming fear that fact brought about in me. A rehabilitation camp, the place where people go and when they leave they aren’t people anymore. It was like an unspoken rule that everyone knew except me and laughed as I floundered in my worry. It was like I was dying in slow motion, the drift of a feather until it reached the bottom of the chasm, the fires of hell bursting into light to take it away from the floating, whispering dream.
I am- well, maybe I was a farmer. It was odd to picture myself as anything else, a farmer, a son, a hard-worker. The chuckle escaped my lips before I could stifle it with a slight, soft sob. A hard-worker… it was funny. That word meant the opposite of it’s usual meaning. …show more content…
“I suppose I didn’t work hard enough,” I thought bitterly, thinking back to my before because at this point, imagining an after was even worse.
They had come in shells of metal, brandishing guns and sick sadistic smiles. Stokes’ men and machines, they were practically no longer the former as they moved with his orders and cared not for the “plebeian” they crushed in the wake. No one cares for us anymore, even the rumors of rebels in a mountains were faint whispers to the shrieking presence of what we have here.
They were professional, and I think that is what was horrifying because it made everything seem as if it was moving in slow
I am- well, maybe I was a farmer. It was odd to picture myself as anything else, a farmer, a son, a hard-worker. The chuckle escaped my lips before I could stifle it with a slight, soft sob. A hard-worker… it was funny. That word meant the opposite of it’s usual meaning. …show more content…
“I suppose I didn’t work hard enough,” I thought bitterly, thinking back to my before because at this point, imagining an after was even worse.
They had come in shells of metal, brandishing guns and sick sadistic smiles. Stokes’ men and machines, they were practically no longer the former as they moved with his orders and cared not for the “plebeian” they crushed in the wake. No one cares for us anymore, even the rumors of rebels in a mountains were faint whispers to the shrieking presence of what we have here.
They were professional, and I think that is what was horrifying because it made everything seem as if it was moving in slow