I was never blessed with education, as many people are in this world.  I never learned to read, to write, to express myself, to live. Even if that was always a burden on my heart, the numbers on my forearm is a memorization test I’ve aced beyond anybody's believing. Sometimes I feel rubbing it on the barbed wire as I’m sitting there in the dust, tears of blood streaking down my so-called “cursed” face. Staring at torn flesh is much better in my opinion. Even If I was educated, I probably couldn’t spell the word second in line with the things burned in my mind. Auschwitz. Clenching my striped cap, I try to imagine myself as an artist, making final touches of red on his masterpiece. Drip, Drip, Drip. the blood soaks into the fabric. I’ll publish this work of art, show the world how talented I am, get showered with gold, fame, and happiness. Then I’ll buy a pistol and shoot a hole into Lucifer's mustache, hang his heck on the barbed wire, and watch the sunlight reflects on his black boots. That would be my masterpiece. Suddenly, a man snapped my imagination away, like the dogs who found me pull on their master's leach. I look over at the puddle of blood beside me, but only a crimson skull looks back at me. He grabbed me by the scruff of my shirt and my bare feet trail tracks in the dust. I know this is the end of my story. Oh, mama, papa, I will finally get to see you again. I finally will be home. We can dance, laugh, and cry tears of joy, that are so clear you can drink them. He throws me in my cool, metallic, square coffin, and for a second I can see the reflection of my face in his cool hard eyes, and notice the solemn smile on my face. Drip, Drip, Drip. a puddle of red signifies my final masterpiece, my farewell to this world. And the door closes in a metallic crunch, sealing me in darkness. I wake up to light.