FOUL RIVER

FOUL RIVER

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WpMetadataReadMatureOngoing<5 mins
WpMetadataNoticeLast published Sat, Sep 26, 2015
Those hands. Every time I look at them I’m reminded of how much I deserve to get exactly what’s coming. To starve. To die. There’s blood on those hands. But not as much blood as there is on the hands of the man who just passed by my empty tin, money in his pocket, without so much as a passing glance. The man who didn’t do anything to me. The man who just killed me. This is the world seen through the eyes of a beggar in the 18th century.
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I am dying - it was inevitable. The poison given to me over the course of several months have spread throughout my veins and seep through my bones. I was alone. There was not one single person to hold me, to comfort me, or to cry for me... I am all alone... NOTE from the writer: I'm an amateur writer so please overlook plot holes, grammar issues, or anything else a story is supposed to have. This is my original story so... as the saying goes "if you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all".

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