Tuesday

The Wee Small Hours By Slick Hellbastard (497 Words)

Wednesday, 2am and Nigel still couldn't get to sleep. Two and a half hours he had lain in bed, tossing and turning, lying first on his left side then his right, then on his back, before repeating the cycle again but all to no avail. Outside, the rain beat a relentless tattoo on his window and the trees continued their perpetual wind-blown dance, their restlessness echoing that of his own nocturnal agitation.

"This is fucking typical" seethed Nigel as he propped himself up on his elbow to beat his pillow in yet another futile attempt to create slumber inducing comfort. "I gotta be up in four bastard hours, I ain't gonna get any fucking kip at this rate!"

He flopped back down onto the mattress, letting out a long, exasperated sigh. He could sense he was reaching a level of irritability and tenseness which would only exacerbate matters by prolonging his state of total wakefulness. However, he found it increasingly difficult to maintain his chi during those nights when the prospect of sleep seemed as realistic as the chances of hearing a decent guitar solo at a Limp Bizkit concert.

And then, as if designed by some greater force to deliberately compound his misery, the burglar alarm on the empty house a few doors down started trilling out it's insistent, but ultimately futile plea for attention. "Oh fucking perfect, not a-bastard-gain!" groaned Nigel, pulling the pillows over his head in a desperate bid for some form of sanctuary from it's aural assault. Bitter experience however, had taught him that the siren's sonic solicitations would be his constant companion for the next half hour, until the alarm re-set itself in readiness for the next time. "I'll take a bastard hammer to that fucking thing one day." fumed Nigel. "But of course, I'll need to take a ladder with me and climb over the fence into the neighbour’s back garden somehow..."

Ultimately, Nigel decided there was no way sleep was coming to claim him with it's gentle caress this night, and with a resigned sigh he climbed out of his warm bed and in the darkness, crossed the bedroom and stepped out onto the landing.

His decision to not turn on the light was one Nigel would regret for the few remaining seconds of his life. In the stygian gloom, he failed to see the Dr Marten boots he had earlier tossed aside at the top of the stairs.

"Wha fuck...?" were the last words he ever uttered, as he stumbled at the top of the precipitous flight and, finding no purchase, plunged head first into the darkness.

The end came swiftly as, after describing a perfect arc in the air, his neck made contact with the seventh stair, snapping it clean in two and killing him instantly, leaving his lifeless cadaver to tumble inelegantly down the remaining stairs and land at the bottom in an untidy heap, legs akimbo.

And there Nigel lay, undiscovered, for two weeks.....

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