The Brokenhearted Leper

Are we not all lepers? - Editor

by William Knight

Froth was my cellmate. He was a leper. Not the contagious kind. The kind of man kept alive for the sport of nasty children, and dismissive nobles--who shunned his outstretched hand as if it brandished a dagger.

“She was a sight, my lad. A true beauty,” he said longingly.

I nodded, feigning interest in his oft-told tale.

“If it wasn’t for this accursed affliction.”

Light seeped through the bars, illuminated Froth’s deformity in a dazzling ochre haze. I tried not to flinch, but failed. Froth noticed and clammed up, his one good eye leaking betrayal.

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