The Last Drop
From the panoramic window I could see the rolling countryside and the sun licking the conifers with an orange paintbrush, as it slid slowly towards the horizon.
No sound traversed the glass. Not the wind, not the birdsong, not even the distant sounds of the highway, which I knew was there.
Instead there was incessant furniture scraping, door banging, and desperate angry voices clambering to be understood or at least heard.
I slumped back onto the bed and pressed against the wall. My emaciated form fought to find a position that might afford some relief from the unforgiving excuse of a mattress.
Looking up, I watched as a single droplet detached itself from the mouldy ceiling and fell to join the others in a pool in the corner.
I heard the key in the lock and the outside pandemonium burst in together with two faceless guards.
No need to say hello.
Their skin glistened with sweat and one of them dabbed desperately with a damp rag as he went over to the window.
He wrenched open the black glossy side panel to reveal the heavy rusty bars that dispelled any illusion of freedom.
Another 682 days?
Bad boys don’t cry.
Once again it’s Sunday Photo Fiction time. This weeks prompt is © A Mixed Bag, 2013. It’s a wonderful prompt indeed isn’t it!
Sunday Photo Fiction is curated by Al Forbes.
The idea is to write a short story (200 word max) inspired by what you see in his picture (featured image).