Friday, 21 May 2010

The Effects of Captivity by R. Hunt

Ok, here is my short story. Yes it is very short. I am really not sure if it is good, my friends like it, but I just don't know. Please comment on how I could make the story better. Thank you so much.
I am sitting in a cell, a dark and grimy cell. I am the victim of falsehoods. The proof, of course, was false. How could I, a poor boy who has suffered so much, kill another man? That’s it, I couldn’t. But why accuse me? What did they get out of it? Nothing, nothing at all. Oh, how unfair life is. In this horrible place they never feed or bathe us. They treat us as if we are not human, like we are a worthless smudge of dirt on their boots. Yes, some of the criminals here are quite vulgar. But why do they have to treat us so poorly? I have to get out and that is exactly what I am going to do. I have a plan. I must admit it is a good one and now it is time to put it into effect.

I walk over to the corner of my cell. There, there is a pile of rage which they call a “bed”. Underneath the rags I have hidden a knife. I grab it and hide it behind my back. I saunter to the door and peek out. After a while, I see a guard and I know it is time.

“Please sir, Kind sir! Can ye just give me a wee bit of food? Sir, I’m starvin’ in ‘ere,” I plea.

“I don’t think so runt!” the guard grunted.

The guard turns to me and comes closer. That is exactly what I want him to do. I reach through the bars and grab for the key with my free hand, but I miss. Unfortunately, the guard notices and he reaches in the cell and grabs me by the neck.

“Don’t you do that again, filthy boy, or I’ll break your scrawny little neck!” he yelled.

Then in my panic, I take my hand holding the knife from behind my back and stab the guard through the heart. His hands loose hold of my neck and he holds his stomach while sinking to the floor gasping. I stand there until he breathes his last breath. I reach through the bars and pry the key from his could dead fingers, put it in the lock and walk out of the cell. Once I am out, I stare at the dead man. As I watch his blood drip to the floor, I realize that I am a murderer. I have become who I was accused of being. I walk back in the cell and close the door. After all it is where I belong.


1 comment:

  1. I am not a writer, so I'm afraid I can't critique, but as a reader, I like it.