Stranded

TW: violence

It is finally night.

It had seemed like the day will never end. The sun overhead scorched the land before him. The moon shone nearly as brightly as the bright white sun, but there was nothing of the fire.

The walk had blistered and burned his feet. The hot ground mercilessly shredding any protection his hiking boots could have given him. The ground still burned with that heat but it was vanishing soon.

Now the clothes he had tossed aside miles ago would have come in handy. It felt impossible that a land that burned everything it touched, turned into this frigid place.

Animals were lured out from their daytime hiding places. This nighttime hunting bore an uncanny resemblance to his city.

A city where only a few were safe. The hunters donned a nice badge and lethal weapons. Prey did not realize they were about to be eaten until it was too late. The silver barrel of a gun was already pressed too close to their skin and they closed their eyes for the last time.

He had protested as loud as he could about this inequality. But nothing changed.

Those hours out in the sun arguing for human rights did not prepare him for this idiotic trek through the desert.

There was no sun out anymore. He had to face the bitterness of the cold. So cold he temporarily wished for the sun again. But that would never happen. Not that night.

That night he became prey again. He could not protest against the pack of coyotes. His last words were muffled by the yelps of those vicious creatures.

He went down fighting, like every other prey.