He cursed the blithering idiots who were in charge of the empire he built. The word ‘imbeciles’ came into his mind multiple times.

He raged as his wife walked in every night with a different boy-toy.

He wept as he saw the drug-addled puddles that were his daughter’s eyes. He couldn’t remember when he last saw his son.

He wanted to whip them all into shape, like how he had always done before.

Now he just lies on his bed, lost within himself, hoping his nurse would come soon and clean his shit.

Locked-in syndrome was a bitch.

Written for Masters of Writing Flash Fiction Challenge, Week 3


    1. Thanks, Sarah. One of my friend’s relatives suffered from LIS before passing away a few years back. It’s certainly horrible.


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