fade to black                                    roger smith
	So this is how it ends. It wasn’t what I was hoping for. I was hoping for the false resolution, the tying up of loose ends, the walk into the sunset, the big deathbed scene with family and friends, but not this. I wanted more than this. Open my eyes and close them. ‘Stand back. Don’t touch him for fuck’s sake! Stand back!’ I can feel myself slipping, losing ground, can feel myself. Dying. I was always dying, from the moment I was born I was dying, but now. More so. The smell of the hard tarmac, the sounds of footsteps, shouts, screams. It’s not me screaming. ‘Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!’ I can see my shopping from here, the frozen pizza and the Pedigree Chum, just lying there. I should have bought more dog food last week. It was stupid to run out like that. Stupid. Scraping out the last of the can, using cornflakes as mixer. A woman in white heels, scuffed, cheap looking things, runs over, kicking the shopping and sending the tins rolling across the road, bouncing away from her tasteless stilettos. ‘Oh my God!’ She says, as the tins roll into the gutter. ‘Oh my God!’ Stupid cow. My shopping. ‘It’s Ok mate, you’ll be Ok.’ He’ll be pawing at the door just now. I should have fed him yesterday, it was so stupid to run out like that. ‘Dog food.’ ‘What’s that? Listen! He’s speaking. Don’t worry mate, hang in there.’ ‘Dog food.’ ‘Don’t worry, the ambulance is on the way.’ The man with the brown shoes stands up again, taking charge. He’s not a medical doctor, but he sure knows how to shout. ‘Jesus Christ! Stand back! Give him some room!’ It’s curious the sense of distance. It’s just like they say it is. All this is happening to someone else. It’s not my blood on the road there. It’s my blood on the road. ‘That’s it mate just hang in there, everything’s going to be Ok. Where’s that fucking ambulance? He’s dying for fuck’s sake! Where’s that ambulance?’ No-one will miss me. That much is a comfort, I’d hate for anyone to miss me. Just Digger. Just loyal little Digger who’s not been fed in two days. Just loyal little Digger. I can hear sirens in the distance. High pitched electronic noises, like a car alarm or one of those key-rings you used to get. ‘Thank fuck! It’s Ok mate, hold on you’ll be Ok.’ If I go to hospital, if I die, who’ll feed my wee Digger? It might take days. ‘Digger.’ ‘What’s that mate? Shut up, I can’t hear him. What did you say mate?’ ‘Digger.’ Nothing comes out. The word dies in my throat. Dies. Brown shoes leans closer. ‘Digger.’ I say again. It’s an effort. An effort. I’m. Brown shoes is confused, his huge face furrowed. ‘No mate,’ he says, his features blurring, ‘it was a bus.’ It’s the last thing I hear.