I push myself through the pigeon hole

I push myself through the pigeon hole, a small, delicate dove forcing takeoff. Once free, I climb up towards the clouds, a gentle bird, gliding above the battlefields below. It is almost silent up here,the sounds of gunfire and war are muffled.

Finally I can think, I can be myself without the savages of war forcing change in my choices, I spread my wings wide and glow as a white light in the sky. Despite the harsh black smoke and moments of rain, the air is clear. I can breathe.

Almost. I was so close to flying through the forests of freedom, so close to being my own bird. Then I felt a racing bullet puncture my left wing. The war turned silent. My mind froze, my body numb, my stomach a ball of mush. Panic and pressure as I push myself to keep going. Sweat soaking my feathers, a shallow cry in my call.

Then I felt a racing bullet puncture my right wing. They did it. This is the end. They shot me down.