Like most of us he was depressed. This we attempted to drown in drink and drugs, but there would always come the day when you’d need to put your body back together, and on that day reality would come rushing into the vacuum and you were fucked. On one of these days he attempted to hang himself from the one working light fitting, but it wouldn’t take his weight and he fell, twisting his ankle, snapping the cord. The next he knew he was moving along a wooden walkway toward a pagoda, over fields of verdant green. All was quiet.
Friday Fictioneers is a weekly photo-prompt flash fiction challenge, curated by the wonderful Rochelle Wishoff-Fields, and open to anybody. Full details here.