Short Story: The Reach of Revenge

The walls glistened. It was always wet in the morning. Walls, floor, ceiling, blanket, bedding, his clothes; everything was wet. He rubbed his hands, feeling the lumps left from broken bones long healed. The damp air left mucus in his throat, and every old broken bone in his body ached.

Gol' Bulo coughed with an ugly spasm, and spat upon the wall. He sat cross-legged, staring at the fresh spittle and the countless older stains that riddled the wall. He was responsible for much of it. His face twitched as the ghost of a sneer crossed his lips. His life was reduced to watching spit on a wall.

Three steps. He could take three full strides down the length of the cell, from the end wall to the door, and half that across its width. The walls were of stone, roughly hewn and poorly mortared. Green mold grew in the corners and across most of the back wall, partially hiding the network of cracks that webbed from floor to ceiling.

He had been moved from his previous cell when the cracks in its walls slowly twisted open wide enough for sunlight to slip through. The whole prison was sinking, as was everything else in the Wash. The watch didn't care; the prison was amply large enough to hold its few real prisoners, and the slaves usually slept in the open compound...

Read the complete story in Visira: City of Sorrows