Labyrinth.
He can taste the metal. Feel the cold steel in his dry mouth. Pictures the explosion in his head. The shards of his skull flying out the back; a Tarantino movie in slow motion. Beautiful, deliberately choreographed fragments that morph into illustration. A Japanese cartoon with grimacing onlookers under sweaty brows who applaud as the wall behind him is adorned in a split second. Morbid art. A Haiku of f**k you.
But it’s just a dream. He wakes up again. Realises his mouth is too small. His mind too weak. His love for his children too strong.
There is unfinished business. There are unresolved issues and a glimmer of hope that flashes glimpses of happiness and contentment with time. Time: The great healer. Tick tock. Tick tock. The clock.
