A Prisoner of Conscience



His breath was ragged and his voice gravelly from calling out.  He was locked in the confined, cold, damp building.

Knuckles bleeding from incessant knocking, face covered in a congealed mess of blood and snot, he slithered to his knees, wretched and despondent.

The constant drip, drip aggravated his tattered nerves.

Why couldn’t I have just turned a blind eye?

“Have a heart, let me out,” he beseeched.

A faint scratching sound; was it help or threat?

Thorny tendrils of fear sneaked around his heart and squeezed persistently causing his heartbeat to increase.

A metal key turned in the lock…


Word Count: 100

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.


27 thoughts on “A Prisoner of Conscience

  1. Michael Wynn says:

    Great descriptions, I love the tendrils of fear. It sounds like he is an innocent prisoner, imprisoned for trying to do what he thought was right. He’ll be lucky to escape if he knows something the bad guys want buried.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Life Lessons of a Dog Lover says:

    What a dark tale you weave. Such powerful descriptions. I would have liked it if you had a few more words to let us know who or what was on the other side of the door.


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