The Cells.
A place I never visited and a place my father spent a lot of his time.
I barely know what they are used for. All I know is that there are two large cells in the basement under my family house. Ordinarily used to house trespassers and traitors, something I’ve been falsely labeled as, and a title that has made one of these cells, my home under my home. Although I’m not sure, it’s my home anymore.
The cold gray walls are peeling the cheap paint placed on them; who knows who long ago. Dark brown stains cover the concrete floor, some splatter also stains the pale walls. It’s not all old blood. Some of it is newer, still brown, just a lighter shade. The smell of the sticky, iron-rich liquid is faded- but still here. Disgusting.
The only light available in these stuffy cells is two
