Freedom. The word that describes the feeling of cool water slipping over my shell. The word that describes the feeling of swimming through the shallow waters, weeds parting as I pass. Freedom. A lovely concept, one that every wild animal grows up with. Never having to experience life in a cage, locked behind bars.
Freedom was something every wild thing knew; at least, before the hunters came. Not all the wild ones are threatened by the hunters. The wolf, the moose and the heron are safe, but the smaller animals are at risk. The fish, the snake and my kind, the turtles, are never safe. We must fight for our freedom, using our speed (which is not great) and our habitat, moving among the weeds in the shallows to hide from the hunters. If we are lucky enough to escape their nets to deeper water, there is a chance we will escape.
Though our skills have evolved to match the times, their skills still surpass our own. They will chase us into the deep, waiting for us to surface when the need for air drives us up. They are swift and unforgiving, patient and strong. They jump into the waters and swim after us if need be. All this, just for the sport of �turtle hunting�, as they call it.
My captors appeared gentle at first; I did not think they had the patience or strength to capture me. I was wrong. The caught me, along with 5 others, and put us in a cage, a cage with solid walls. We were given water from out home, and rocks for tanning. They feed us the fish they catch, and though it may seem we are treated with kindness, we are still prisoners.
I have no hope of escape, of freedom. A couple of the others hold onto hope, but none remains for me. I continue to pray for release, too again feel the water slipping over my shell. I have stopped eating, and now spend my time sunning on the rocks. I wait for my release, either back into the water I knew as a young turtle, or release into the dark oblivion known as death.