By Shweta Padma Das

We’re gunning for the finish line. Two miles. One.

We can smell freedom, and home-cooked meals. And endless summer days spent under the deodar. Skidding pebbles across the stream. Racing against each other. For no other reason than to feel the wind race through us, the sun kiss our backs. To feel the give of the grassy earth under our bare feet. To feel weightless, alive. When the first body drops. Then another.

I fall, too. Shot in the back.


2 thoughts on “Hostiles

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