The Picture on the Wall

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My life flashed before my eyes, my mind raced through all of the names of the people I cared about. My mother, my pa, my dear little sister, Ali, and my best friend, Meg. I could of helped them all. But that stupid rug that I always trip on. The one right by the library. But not any library, the enemies library.

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Photo by Janko Ferlic on Pexels.com

The officer put his big boot foot on my back. His stern look told me that he wouldn’t let me off the hook. He yanked me up and my arm twisted. Pain exploded through me, fire twisting through my veins. It felt like a tidal wave.

We went down the hall and descended a spiral staircase. The dungeon. It smelled like a hairball and manure was dropped in there.

The further down you went, the bigger the crimes were. But we didn’t go down that far; all I did was trespass. But if they knew everything I’ve done, I would be at the very end of this hall.

The stall was damp and dark. The wall was dull gray well except for a picture on the wall. When I first saw it I thought nothing of it. But when I study it, it looks so familiar. It was a human girl drawn in black.

After I came to my stall from a lunch of stale bread and water the painting had changed: it was red. Not just red; blood red. Then my mind clicked. The girl on the wall was my sister. An earsplitting scream fills my head. Then everything turns black. Cold black.

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