Running.

Running.

Running from the Red Bands.

Running from the Red Bands through the cold city.

Running through the cold city alley ways; weaving through the piles of rubbish and filth. My feet rapping against the concrete; cold flesh on cold ground. I have become lost as my breath streams like smoke from a powerless dragon as they chase after me.

Gunshot.

Gunshot.

Dust and brick cut into the side of my face and the soles of my feet. Tears fall from my eyes as my ears become deafened. I can’t get away; as they have me in their steel cold sights. Jumping over and hiding behind a burnt-out car. Struggling to breathe. My rags, weather-worn and stained red; not for a purpose but for my screams.

Thought…

… and there it goes.

Too dangerous to think.

Too dangerous to know.

Thoughts lead to knowledge, knowledge to questions, questions to the Factory, the Factory to death.

I escaped for now, but not for much—

Gunshot.

Gunshot.

Click.

Now is my chance, as I go from cover to cover; burnt cars and rubbish bins. My world, the world of outcasts. People like me who ask questions against the other world.

Darkened when lit, seemingly perfect but with no freedom.

Think like us.

Talk like us.

Believe like us.

“Why?” will send you to the Factory. To blood, to work, to pain, too death.

Axe to wood and axe to stone. Axe to chain and axe to bone.

 

by Matthew James