My first go at Julia’s prompt for ages, Freedom jumped out at me and my flash fiction wrote itself.

Helpless, me?

Far more subtle than physical abuse, more a creeping way he had of getting under my skin. He projected his own sick feelings of inadequacy that spread like a virus through any sense of self I possessed. He made me believe that I was useless, with no value or purpose at all.

How could I possibly help when he fell into the bowels of Hades Shaft, a disused mine, on Botley moor?

I’d shown him on the map, but he insisted he had the better sense of direction.

Then as the clouds lifted, I found my freedom and he’d met his maker.

Me, helpless?

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