Some people call me a mole because I live inside my four walls (more, if you count all the rooms). The doctors call it agoraphobia. It doesn't matter to me what it's called, I won't go outside; not since my mother was raped and murdered fifteen years ago.
She left to go buy groceries and never returned. They found her battered and lifeless body four miles away in a shallow grave. It damn near killed me.
Some people call my home my prison. It isn't a prison to me. People can't see what I see so they think I'm crazy. My mother comes to visit me often. She tells me stories of her youth and we laugh while we drink tea and eat biscuits.
Most People think I live here all alone. That isn't true. My mother and my late relatives visit me often.
I'm not crazy. Those busybodies are.
Thank you Vanessa Rodriguez for this photo prompt
This story is in response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, week of March 25, 2015. We are given a photo prompt for the base of our stories and challenged to make our stories 150 words (more or less).
If you would be interested in joining this fun flash fiction challenge, please click on this link:
Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers