This week’s #writephoto prompt is

Rodney ap Tyron hated his father and mother, had a permanent dislike of his four brothers and absolutely abhorred his grandparents. Which was a shame as he had a rare and debilitating psycho-neurological ailment that meant he found it impossible to leave the family estate. The only way in which he could tolerate his existence was to spend as much time as possible as far away from the main house and other points of habitation. This was fine in good weather but when it poured, or snowed, or baked hot with a ferocity he usually served for his total disgust at his family’s machinations, he was desperate for somewhere to shelter. He’d stand under the overhanging branches of an ancient oak, staring at the lit windows and scowl, wishing nothing but ill on those who shared his genes and yet mad his life hell.

Gradually he became adept at creating his own shelters; he bivouaced in the woods and lived for some time in a cut and cover arrangement in a small depression near the southern boundary. He began to feed himself and became wild and untamed.

It was a Tuesday, cloudy with the chance of sleet when the man in the raincoat found him. Rodney had never seen him before. He sniffed and decided he wasn’t related so let him speak.

‘Your whole family is dead; you are now the Lord of the Manor. You can come back indoors.’

Which was all well and good. In theory. Rodney tried but there were ghosts and memories and those funny things that blocked out the light, like window blankets. Others came and tried to persuade him to stay inside but it never lasted long. In the end an agreement was reached; the main house and ancillary buildings were let and the rent went to support his backwoodsman’s lifestyle.

Do not think Rodney had no say in all this. He insisted on many changes the biggest being those he had made to the family mausoleum. It was customary for the ap Tyrons to be cremated and their ashes placed in urns in the grand marble rotunda. Inevitably this building was the last place Rodney visited. When, eventually, he entered and stared at the many alcoves holding the generations of his family he had an idea.

His staff were dubious; the lawyers troubled and the builders surprised but Rodney insisted.

And so it was that the urns were taken down and set in the walls at 45 degrees; a complicated set of plumbing was installed and after six months Rodney had his revenge. The rotunda, it was said, was the grandest, most opulent and most unusual urinal in Southern England. Every morning Rodney would relieve himself on a different relative, filtering his waste juices through their residue and feeling that, at last it was not him who was being pissed on.