ISSN 1758-6488
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Years With No Head Fiction |
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Sean had brought the last one with him, yet still hadn’t opened it, wanting neither to hear nor ignore his friend’s final confession. When he got to the hospital, Sweeney was still alive, the fat skin Sean had seen in the picture falling off him, revealing the skinny boy he’d known, there again, after all. The girlish eyes opened, lashes longer than ever.
“I knew you’d come, you fucker.”
The lids closed, and Sean knew they wouldn’t open again. Coke, probably, that was what would have caught up with him.
He went outside for a fag and opened the letter. The one thing they’d never been able to trace, that figure leaving the van, caught on the cctv. It was me, it was always me. And even this far along the corridor, Sean could hear him, his old mate Michael Sweeney, laughing as he croaked.
