Ruby
A pool of ketchup floods the chicken.
I stare at my mother as I make the bloody mess, a blank look on her face.
She doesn't say a word. She can't say a word. All she can do is stare and wish she could have a taste of the chicken. But she can't. I wonder if her taste buds are still working.
I take the first bite of the chicken. It's stunning. And spicy. And scrumptious. I take the second bite and chew slowly, taking my time to savour the taste before I swallow.
My mother is sitting directly opposite from me, a wooden table separating us. She's in an orange jumpsuit that makes her look too skinny. And too sad. And too sorrowful.
Orange is a bright colour yet she manages to make it look dull. But who would be delighted to wear prison uniform for the rest of their lives? Who would
