This is where I grew up. The house, once holding victims of alcoholism, now the victim of age and the elements. Once an entanglement of chaos, violence and alcohol is now overrun with tangled vines and other plant life. The exterior splintered as if it can no longer hold the secrets that once were within its walls. Heartache and fear have burst through the siding like the screams years before. The home a tattered reminder that those closest to your heart never understood your suffering. The white picket fence, a symbol of an all American home to many, a symbol of imprisonment to me. A symbol of a family lost.
This is fiction written for FRIDAY FICTIONEERS
Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going over or under the word count.)
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