By Mizeta Moon
I volunteered to be the first one executed because I didn’t want to watch my brethren die. Witnessing their frailty be surrendered to the brutality of hate was a sight I couldn’t face. Blood sickens me. Possibly watching rivers of it flow and being helpless to stop it pummeled my sensibilities.
Armed warriors came for us at night and herded us into vans that carried us blindfolded to unknown destinations. Chains bit into our skin. Our cries for aid and sympathy fell on deaf ears. We’d been targeted for extinction by a zealous xenophobic society that considered itself more worthy of existence than us. Though we considered ourselves harmless and them misinformed, we became their victims as hatred overwhelmed reason.
As we starved in filthy facilities, we learned that people were being accosted on the street, swelling our numbers and making conditions worse. We were appalled that family members would sentence parents, offspring, or siblings to agony beyond imagination. At first, I wondered why they didn’t kill us right away, but soon realized mass execution required a totally brainwashed populace and strenuously managed release of information. There were still a few people with a heart left in the world. They were the only thing standing between us and wholesale slaughter. Debate raged in the country while more of us were crammed together, making it easy to dispose of us all at once, but in the end, sympathy waned and they prolonged the torture. In lines, we shuffle towards our doom, bound by suffering more than chains.
The killing fields are composed of sand that absorbs our blood and will never know our names. I wasn’t the first one chosen. Now my tears flow while my heart breaks and I await my turn to die. My empty stomach churns with anger while my mind questions why.
A pat on the shoulder as you pass a friend. A hug when it’s needed. Maybe that’s all it takes to make the world a better place. Love, Mizeta.