He saw the look of horror on their faces immediately. He descended the last step, fingers brushing the worn post. He felt the familiar ridges, the scratches filled with memories of rough-housing and laughter and carefree childhood.
“Stop this nonsense,” mother hissed. “If you can’t present yourself appropriately, don’t present yourself at all.”
Mother turned her back on him in the cold emptiness and gaily joined the others in the brightly-lit room.
He gripped the worn post, dug his nails into the ridges and etched one more memory into its scratched surface. I’ll show them.
Flash fiction written for Friday Fictioneers. Photo prompt:
picture by Shaktiki Sharma