Going Down



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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