This is for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers.
PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot
Everywhere there were people: beneath, above, across the hall, across the street, at the other side of the wall, inside her head. The racket of their shouting, drunken, whining, angry voices was unceasing. Even in her dreams they raged at her, feet drummed, music pounded, cars roared.
She watered the plants on the window ledge, looked down into the gulf of the street. She pinched a flower head and dropped it into the emptiness, watched in fall, slow, drifting white and peaceful. She wondered how long before it hit the pavement below. She wondered, put one leg over the sill…