His family once visited an old castle. He was unimpressed at the time, never suspecting he might one day long for the softness of moss under his feet.
There are certain things one expects of prison: lumpy cots, unpredictable tempers. Others have to be experienced firsthand: the stench of body odor mixed with bleach, the boredom, and the sore feet. Virtually every step taken since the verdict had been on concrete, and damn, those feet hurt like hell. He massaged them at night while dreaming of the castle, and could almost feel the blades of grass scratching his bare ankles.
[WORD COUNT: 100]
Photo prompt @ Roger Bultot
Written for the Friday Fictioneers, hosted as always by the wonderful Rochelle. Disclaimer: I have never been to prison, so forgive me if the descriptors are inaccurate.