Why I wrote this: A few weeks ago my Senior English teacher passed out a sheet of paper with six photographs on it. Each one had a hand doing a different action. We were to write about one of the photographs for about seven minutes, describing what might be going on. I wrote mine about the picture of a hand reaching out to a barbed wire fence, with nothing in the surrounding.
Sometimes when I fall asleep, I can relive my life. The life before. Everything feels so real: the conversations, the faces of my family smiling at me, and the gentle touch of my wife and son. When I wake up, the happiness never existed.
I am alone. I am hopeless.
I get up from my stained bed sheets each and every morning and head out into the yard, where my eyes are blinded. It is just as well perhaps. All there is, is barren wasteland.
And that fence.
The wall of chains and sharp barbed wire, of cliffs and deep moats. I touch the rust each and every day, hoping that it is the day I will be saved. Each disappoints.
Forgotten, alone, and regretful. The day the bombs came down from the sky like meteors was the day I lost my life.