$50,000

50,000 dollars. That’s the price of someone’s life. Not a rescue, not a miracle — a bounty wrapped in red, white, and blue paper. They say it’s a “bonus,” a thank you for service, but tell me — What kind of service costs a family its father? What kind of job rewards you for ripping lullabies out of children’s mouths? 50,000 dollars to look away when the cuffs click, to harden your heart while a mother’s voice cracks like glass. They call it “duty.” I call it what it is — a paycheck for pain. The government writes checks like confessions they’ll never sign, hoping the zeroes erase the screams echoing through detention halls. They don’t need heroes, They need silence. They buy it. And people cash it. Because who wouldn’t take 50,000 when rent is due, when your fridge hums emptier every night? That’s how the system works — it starves you, then feeds you blood money. And the price of a conscience drops every fiscal year. 50,000 dollars. That’s the price of someone’s life. But tell me — when the border fades, and the headlines die, How much will your soul be worth then? - Tecuani