He stood there, staring at the ruins
of a place he never called home. Its
scarred walls were once filled with such
pain. He could still remember his mother
cowering in the corner, her hands raised to
ward off the blows, whimpering like a
petrified child. He remembered the insults
and abusive words that were hurled at her.
He vowed that it would be the last time
he watched his mother suffer abuse at the
hands of this miserable excuse for a man.
One night, after he returned home from
hanging out with his friends, he found
his mother in the kitchen, clearing the
table. His step-father was upstairs in
their room. Fresh bruises were on
her arms. Incensed, he ran out,
ignoring her protests…
The room stank of alcohol and sweat.
He almost gagged as he went over
to the bed where the bulky figure
lay. He was sleeping, a lit
in his hand. He was about to take it
and out it but he froze. Instead,
he backed away and quietly
left the room. It took some
persuading but he got his mother
Ten years later, he stood there
among the ruins with no regrets.
Word Count: 199
I wrote this in response to the Sunday Photo Fiction Challenge–my first. It is hosted by Susan and the photo is courtesy of C.E Ayr. If you’re interested in reading other stories for this photo prompt, click here.