End of days

I did have an office in the city a few years ago, I was running bags across town three times a day back then sometimes I would get to go to England around winter but only because I had the car and it could hide twice as much as others in the crew and the ferry was easy. Then one job turned ugly, only half was there when they tore open the package and as I was the representative, I was the one to get maimed. I called back to get instructions but nothing. Walking backwards I pull a knife which is last resort material but somehow I make it onto the street alive, Into the car and back to the office and nail a drink.

I drink too much. I fall asleep and around me the evening covers me in black, the sugar flies around the blood canals and the nightmares pile up. Sweat around the neck chills and wakes me, I hear the the boots of the men. The door slams open and the blur of them run around my deskbed, drag me to the floor and there’s a long beating a savage kicking and hurting which I barely feel, the single malt helps. You cannot beat blood out of a fallen tree and I have nothing, nonstop the boys are laughing they don’t care it’s target practice for them on the drunk courier and not content to leave it after a time they want the world to see. It’s a slow Tuesday for them.

The sun has come out so that means it’s the next day I can’t feel between my neck and the bottom of my rubbery spine i can make out through my last eye a broken hand and the taste of iron in my mouth is alien. My shoulders are so sore one more so that the other because its dislocated and that’s being bounced down the stairwell. I can’t make out the language but I can tell the snorting laughter of one bloke who’s doing all the dragging and the clipping of my head off the elevator cage off the gold trimmed stairs. At one stupid stage they stand me up to just see me fall over again and I do this gladly but not before knocking some tiles out from the wall, those old school Victorian classics I seen in London city down the tube removed gracefully with the unbruised side of my head, everything hurts and bleeds and moans and I want nothing but unconsciousness, more sleep, please more sleep let me sleep even a blurry death would do.

But a child wakes me up on the sidestreet of a block of flats the sun is around but the rain is washing away the last of the blood in my eyes and the shadow helps me to sit up and breath again. I can’t live like this anymore.







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