Soon after the bullet split into my flesh, through my organs, I saw blood trace the sand. It slid down the curves of the earth and drew images no one would ever notice. Somber art only I could appreciate. Illustrations along the canvas of vermilion told my tale—a tome of an outlaw, wanted, someone who died free. Autonomy became my solace, my hierarchy, my legacy. In that, I found acceptance. So I closed my eyes as everything blurred until there was only black and cold.