I know it’s only been three weeks, but it felt like three years since I ran away from home. The long-forgotten, empty factories were my place of refuge now. I had met Al here, but they had come chasing him and I couldn’t save him from the three men that we were up against. Instead, I ran away, selfishly keeping myself safe from the terror of the outside world.
Unlike me, Al had never had a family. He had grown up in the community that had formed in the back alleys of the city, roaming around, constantly on the search for food.
At night, while I lay shivering in one of the dark corners of the factories, I dreamed of the delicious smell of my mother’s food. We were always happy in my dream, laughing away all the terror we had to endure.
Staring out the window of the factory, I suddenly realised what a terrible mistake I had made leaving her. Winding my way through the streets, I wondered whether I was too late.
I heard her screams and cries from outside the house. At least she wasn’t dead yet, I told myself, but the thought wasn’t very consoling.
© 2016
**Perfect! I managed to keep it to exactly 200 words this time.**
Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner, Week #10 – 2016
Photo prompt provided by http://publicdomainarchive.com/public-domain-images-hine-lewis-national-child-labor-committee-collection/
FELICIA HEILGENDORFF 
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