Inmate

It was a cold Saturday morning in April. The inmate sat strapped to a chair in the street, the wind flapping her nightdress against her legs, her head in a scold’s bridle, her eyes black specks behind wisps of white hair. She was about sixty. Early morning shoppers hurried past without looking. On the pavement beside her a bowl contained a boiled potato and a spoonful of mushy peas. Next to it a placard posed the question: Can a Human Being Exist Like This?

‘Inmate’ by Nick Boreham Spilling Ink Volume 1, p. 171, Unbound Press 2011