She would never see any of this again. All of the carefully selected tools, clothes, lamps, and books. Not a single item would be spared. She despised the man who slapped away her hand and stared in her eyes long enough to remember exactly what they looked like.
She hated them all. All those wealthy people on the streets, people with proper homes and jobs. Feigned, fake and insincere conversations.
Here in her little shed she had always felt safe. Safe enough to sleep through the nights and know that her treasures would never be found.
Until the guy recognised her, when she had tried to rob him. She had been sentenced to go to prison and all of this would go to the scrapyard. She dropped to a chair and downed a whiskey, when they came pounding on her door.
Friday Fictioneers, 29 April 2016
Photo prompt provided by Mary Shipman
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