Going Down - A #LittleFears Monday horror in which fueral costs arise.

Going Down

He woke up. He was moving down. He banged his fists on the roof.

“Damn you!” he screamed. “Damn you!”

He fumbled in his pocket, found a matchbox, flicked out a match and struck it.

His vision blurred. He drew what air he could into his lungs.

Above him, in red felt-tip pen. ‘Tight arse couldn’t buy me a fancy coffin’.

Then sleep.

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