A Smoker’s Death
Jason was dead. Bloody typical he thought. He’d given up sugar, cut back on fried food, been to the gym, dusted off his pension plan, spent an hour quality time with Chloe when she stung him for some vodka and told him she had herpes, or was that the other way round?, complimented Maggie on her hair. In terms of resolutions he’d pretty much nailed it.
He floated above the bench, outside the Duck where the smoker’s huddled and listened to the police take statements. The forensic people began to do unpleasant things to his body. One said, ‘Looks like he’s been hit with a blunt object.’
Jason waved at the novelty ashtray. No one noticed. Maybe they couldn’t see him, but how could they miss it?
When would he be allowed to go? All this hanging about. Surely, he wasn’t going to have to witness what happened to his body? Or did you follow your own corpse until, what? Burial? Cremation? Oh God, what if they did an autopsy? No way could he watch that. Or the smell. Did he still have a sense of smell?
Policeman A began to talk to Naomi, she of the first blow. ‘Look on her cheek, plod,’ Jason screamed. ‘That’s my blood.’ Next to them, Harvey wiped his hands on the seat of his pants. ‘You’ll not hide it, sonny,’ Jason shouted, fruitlessly. Nope, they couldn’t hear either.
He floated higher. They’d get them eventually. But, honestly it was his own fault. Joining a bunch of smokers on the 2nd of January and boasting about all your own resolution successes when it was patently clear they had already failed in theirs. Justifiable homicide really, you smart arse. He dived at the remains of his beer, wondering if he could still taste it.
This is for Microcosms prompt today