The smell of baking bread in the castle kitchens. The scalding heat of the fire. The dirty tears of sweat trickling down the arms of the boy tending the flame. The shouts of the cook; the back of her calloused hand as she knocks me to the floor once more. The cruel laughs of the other kitchen whelps.
Even now, sitting on this train I can still sense the imprint of her hand; remember the watching faces.
I know these are not dreams, not fantasies born of a tiredness with the modern age. These are recollections; these are memories.
I have been here before.
These words form my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge