Ever the Optimist

It didn’t hurt half as much as I’d thought it would. I didn’t even have time to get scared.

One minute I’m trying to wriggle out of my annoyingly snug bra, the next I’m up at the ceiling staring down at my goggle-eyed corpse. The snap of my neck as it broke sounded pretty manky, but in the grand scheme of things I had an okay death. Could’ve been a helluva lot worse.

He’s still lying on top of me. I can only see the back of his head from here but I can tell from the puppy-dog whimpers that he’s in a state of shock. Well, what did he expect when he was smacking my napper against the headboard like that? It was an accident waiting to happen. I suppose I can’t really blame him – even I’m getting a wee bit freaked out by my own death mask: all huge, wet eyes and ashen skin. There’s a silver trail of saliva coiling down over my chin: not being able to wipe it irritates me beyond belief.

You can find the complete version of Ever the Optimist in issue 68 of TBD.

Sarah Bissell