My clothes are stained with the blood from my hands as the needle is dripping dry. It's resting on the table by my bedside. I can feel the fabric within my veins. I'm sure it's stained by now. I'm not sure I'll ever get out.
Father told me this would feed the family, if just for a little while. He said, "we're needed by the Americans and their ever-changing style." He used to be the strongest man my eyes had ever seen. Now he lies in a shallow grave thanks to faulty machinery. Fuck this machinery.