If those cold grey stones could talk, what tales they could tell…

Of the woman shackled in a straightjacket while the man who drove her to madness sipped wine at home.
Or the boy whose friends were put to rest by putting his mind to sleep.
Of the wailing mother who was certain that her baby was still in her womb.
Of the man in tremors pleading for just one shot – by God he knew people and could pay the price.
Of the girl who went down on her knees just to keep the demons at bay.

Not all prisons have jailors, some have doctors.

 


Written for Friday Fictioneers with photo prompt by J Hardy Carroll

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13 thoughts on “Those grey stones

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