By Maggie Veness
With a rattle of keys, he’d enter at midnight then stand poker-faced opposite my cell, barely moving until sun-up brought his replacement. Yet, through the small, barred window I glimpsed the face of a kind, lonely man who you might see crouched by a campfire, stirring beans in a blackened pot.
I’d beckoned him closer one day and bared my breasts, hoping he’d unlock the door; lift my skirt; set me free. Alas, with a troubled brow he lowered his eyes and retreated. That was the day I knew I’d hang—for stealing a gold necklace to feed my hungry children.
I love this. Haunting.
Delicious, delightful, and deranged, Maggie. Thank you
Excellent tale of desperation.