27 April 2012
The distant cry pulls him back to the cold and unrelenting pain. He opens his eyes and takes in the hard truth of it all over again. trapped in the barriers without a life, without a name. As he rubs a gauntly hand over the number crudely tattooed on his forearm, the first rays of sunrise fall upon the snow covering the stone floor of his housing unit. The slaughter house as the "green guards" call it.
Peace • Opuss № I