There’s a dozen of us crammed into this holding cell. Complete strangers. Informed not to talk by the woman in charge who left us here, she reminded me of my mother and the tyrannical rule she held over my life. Freud would have a field day, if he was afforded the time to step into my cesspool of a mind. But I digress. The woman left about forty-five minutes ago and we’ve been sitting here ever since.
There are three doors. The one we came through, one mirroring it on the other side and another small door with a brass sign that reads toilet. Every time someone wanders in a ghastly smell seeps out. Continue reading “Judgements by Ross Jeffery”