The mournful maid, by Lily Roberts (5SB)
I’m walking down the path to the front door of this monstrosity of a house.
I’m ringing the rusty bell. Thump thump thump. Closer and closer and closer.
I can hear the wind howling. The door opens. A butler is standing there.
His uniform, black and white. Waiting for me to come inside.
‘Come in, miss,’ he pronounces.
We stagger up what seems like hundreds of stairs.
At the top and he says: ‘your room, miss.’
I open the door to find a room with a chest and a bed.
The only light struggles in from the dull window.
The room looks as if all the life had been sucked out of it.
This place is not a house. It is a prison.