Lock. Public domain photo by Jody Lehigh.

Lock. Public domain photo by Jody Lehigh.


by Rebekah Postupak

I want vengeance. Crave it. THIRST for it, do you hear me? Those vicious hooligans—no, vandals! delinquents!—have deprived me for the last time, and I’m taking my own back.

Please understand, I am normally an easy-going kind of woman. Years of pain and abuse (yes, I dare use that word, ABUSE!) have melted my unyielding steel into pathetic, worthless, rippable aluminum foil. I hate myself for it, but at least in allowing the persecution day after uncomplaining day, I’ve managed to fashion a kind of peace between myself and my tormenters. It’s not a real peace, of course, but it’s the only way I’ve found to survive this life.

Until today.

No more.

They are hammering at the door, demanding entry. Their furious shouts make the walls tremble. I hear the white rage of their strategizing, feel it seeping beneath the door and across the cold, hard floor, where it’s now crawling up my legs. I tremble too, tears stinging the corners of my eyes, but I

Never again.

My house.

My bathroom.


176 tear-stained flash words that needed writing.


4 thoughts on “Prisoner

  1. hahaha…. OMG! I so know how this feels! Even when you manage to get in and lock it quickly enough, they are still there, just on the other side. Never a moment’s peace! But you love ’em anyway. 😉

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