I’m still sat upon the hill. The water is still, terrifying. Vast even though it’s possible to see the land.
There is paint under my fingernails. my chest itches.
I need new t-shirts.
The winter feels far away. On the hill, littered with bodies, a man or a woman smokes a cigarillo. The smoke covers the sickly smell of dying flesh.
Silence.
Pry open my lunch box and peer inside. A dead fly and a tiny piece of cheese next to a hunk of green bread. Special. Southcote green.
Invisible.
Plastic.