The bus is crowded. It stinks as though no one's taken a bath in months, combined with the stench of rotting leftover food and rust. The bus jumps at the tiniest pebble on the road. The guy next to me looks as though he's just come out of high school; he's afraid. His eyes wonder from person to person, wondering who, who should I try to say hi to? His hands fidget incessantly, trying to grip the last invisible string of hope as tightly as possible. Sweat beads drip down his chin like a waterfall. He's afraid. I look beyond him and see the guy sitting across another aisle. Same look. I look behind me. Same look. Everyone's afraid. No one wants to be here. I wonder if I looked at myself right now, would I look just like them, shivering in fear, afraid of what's to come, and wishing I wasn't born from this country? I wipe by slippery hands on my pants, but as soon as I wipe my hands, the moisture comes back. I think I see more than ten fingers. I don't think that's a good sign. Maybe I need to breathe, because I might be hyperventilating and possibly seeing hallucinations. Maybe I need to calm down and realize that reality isn't always what one picture it to be or hopes it to be. Maybe I need to realize that in a few moments I'm going to be going through trainings that would soon either lead me to instant or prolonged death. Or maybe, just maybe, I need to go back home. I don't want to be here just as much as the guy next to me. Why would I want to learn to pull a trigger? Why would I want to learn to take the pin out and throw a tiny little metal shell? I look outside the window, to see the last of the lush green mountains that surrounds my hometown. Who knows whether nature will hold steadfast to its majestic aurora of green, or be consumed by the fiery red of despair, death, and agony? All I know is that I wanna go home. I wanna see her, just one last time, touch her chin one last time, feel her lips against my one last time. Before I can finish drawing her inside my head, the bus comes to a screeching halt. Before anyone has time to recover from the shock, a tall, grim man walks into the already crowded bus. His voice is powerful, almost overwhelming. His words are terse, but clear. As soon as his lips close, everyone scrambles out of the bus, pushing, kicking, perhaps even eye-gauging others to be the first out. As soon as everyone is out, everyone but the last person follows the commander. I look back to see the guy left behind in a push-up stance, with another officer-like figure brooding over him with a baseball bat. If my eyes haven't fooled me, I think my eyes might have even saw some faint red blotches on the bat. They shave our heads. Some guys cry as if shaving their heads somehow eats away at their flesh, their minds, their souls. They'll soon know that a head that reflects the sun's ray should be the last of their concerns. They immediately make us run, run until one by one, we fall down, doubled over and throwing up. My head starts to spin again, and I think I see three heads instead of one on the guy in front of me. As the sun sets, a flock of birds fly across the horizon, slicing the sky into a v-shape. How I wish I could be one of those birds, flying away without any realization of what a blessing it will soon be to not be human. How I wish I could be those birds that are flying back home. I wanna go home. But I need to keep running.
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