Light

Content warning: suicide

It was difficult to judge exactly where to stand on the platform. Too close to the edge and he was likely to alert a bystander, too far away and there might not be time.

Afghanistan. The feel of the smooth trigger in his hand. That millisecond where that man was still alive but the bullet had already left the army issue gun. That pleading look in his eyes.

This could end now. Two minutes to the next train. How do people do this exactly? A run and a jump? A step off the platform? Would someone else have to clear out his office now? Carry out his belongings in a plastic box?

Home. That long summer filled with beaches and ice creams and picnics. Sausages on the barbecue. £1.50 from his neighbour Mr Lamont for cutting the grass for him followed by hours in the toy shop, choosing how to spend his hard earned cash.

The earthy breeze and the promised train. Afghanistan. Lawnmower. Afghanistan. Lawnmower.

Lawnmower.

The train pulled up and the doors slid open in front of him. He pushed his thoughts into the soon to be departing train before turning back to the escalator. Up, up and out. Back into the light.