The Horrid Thing

Thrown out onto the streets. A massive stroke. That car you never saw as you ran across the road. Realising that your best option is to take  your own life. Getting lost in the hall of mirrors of dementia. Being the last one you know still alive. Clinical depression and no death. 

When I die I want to be holding somebody’s hand. We come into the world alone and to go out in the same fashion seems a tragic waste. To hold on to another human being, another soul, as life ebbs away seems to me to be some small triumph over death.

Don’t just remember me. Hold my hand. Then remember me. 

When Stephen jumped off the roof in Manchester,  mine was the last hand he held. Will karma be kind?