The shackles are empty, the chains lain strewn across the floor. The room is devoid of even Its memory. Where? Where has It gone? 

Moonlight filters through the barred window to glitter on the drifting dust mites: the air is stirred but not by you. The room stifles and you gasp; the twilight swallows the sound.

How many years has it been? How many fish head dinners have you brought for It? Will It thank you for that one small kindness? You can only hope so, as the door creaks, the floorboards groan, and knuckles crack.

17 thoughts on “Creak-Groan-Crack

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