odaniel
The chief always gives me orders. "Chop those logs. Brush my hair. Eat the slugs." I'm tired of orders. One day I will run away. Far, far away. Away from this cruel encampment.
I kept everything that my father had when he passed away a few months ago. All of the money, all of his belongings, and everything else. He didn't write a will and the rest of the family hasn't contacted me.
I've been longing to leave this place forever. The wallpaper is peeling and the floor smells of urine. But I can't leave, they watch the windows, they watch my every move.
Canned peaches. Canned sardines. Canned green beans. The only things left on the dark, dusty shelf. The storm is getting closer.