A bright orange digger snarled and smoked – its demolition ball swaying gently in the warm breeze. Inside the cab a workman perspired as he talked on his 2-way radio. This row of cottages was once home to some of the town’s most outwardly upstanding families. Now it was home to terminal decay and manicured lawns long-turned to wispy seed.
A piercing whistle sounded to lurch the digger into action. Yet as the red bricks began to crumble into dust I felt nothing. Maybe I had expected release, however, I knew what happened in that house would live with me forever.
These words form this my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.