Rough Hands

You grab my cold rough hands and haul me from my bed. Your fingers wrap around my arm as you drag me out of the warmth of my blankets. Into the stabbing cold air we run. Our hushed voices scattered in the air as we run for the dark forest. Mother holds him tightly to her chest as she runs, her shoes tearing away from her feet. She soars through the air, flashes of moonlight hit her shoulders. We trip over roots and thoughts of returning to the fields. You grab my hand and run faster. Faster and faster, we run to escape the white whips, we run for him, we run for his soft hands.