An icy wind whistled through the broken, abandoned buildings that formed, the once prosperous, St. Logan’s Cement Works. Three floors up, we huddled desperately for warmth in the corner of a derelict staff room. Droplets of oily condensation fell from the leaking roof, hissing against the single, glowing orange bar of our fire.
Ellie-May could never have foreseen a moment, or indeed a life, like this. I doubt she’ll ever get over the rejection, let alone the deeply hurtful words, both said and written. I only pray she’s strong enough – for herself, and our child.
Ellie-May exhaled a deep breath and tightly squeezed my hand. It was time.
These words form my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.
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Trembling fingers clamped tightly onto my mother’s soaking sleeve. If she too was afraid she never let it show. Instead, with each of my screams she simply pulled me that little bit closer. In the bow, my father and sister huddled together, shielding us from the worst of the spray.
