He wasn’t wearing a shirt.
Scars wrapped his slender chest, a crisscross layer of disfigured tissue.
Frail hands, raw from an excruciating existence, lifted up – a lighthouse of experience.
Thin voice wavered, but never ceased. Hepaused to cough up blood, spat, and continued.
Someone brought him a chair after the third fit. He only leaned against it.
His words painted a vivid, terrifying picture of the future. They pricked at some oppressed and battered shred of dignity in his hearers.
He finally sat, cloudy eyes damp. Rivulets of blood ran from his open mouth.
“Brothers and sisters… if we don’t act, your sons and daughters will become as I am.”