Imagining Their Pain
For all those who were killed this weekend, not respectfully as their killers like to claim, but brutally, with the standard whoops and hollers exchanged as they lay there dying. For all those whose bloody bodies were thrown into the back of trucks, their failed attempts to escape death bragged about. For all the many, many who ran off with arrows and bullets in their bellies, backs, chests, legs, and face but were not found, who fled in terror and suffered slow, excruciating deaths. For that one particular terrified animal, who died one of those slow, suffering deaths, whose brutal end was gleefully recounted and celebrated by some members of my family last night but cried over by others.
Shared last year and shared again this year:








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