Life isn't a rehearsal

He smashed a bottle of cava down into the corner of the concrete room, and rolled over, his face now against the cold, dry abrasive floor. He was naked and any time he moved the surface scratched at his skin. A rope fell from the ceiling, he rolled his eyes up in his head so far they hurt and still couldn’t see the point of ingress, so rolled back over onto his back, the concrete scratching scratching. A dark hole in the concrete ceiling, a rope dangling through. The ceiling seemed so far away the hole was indistinct. He could hear a dull wind blowing, and perhaps some kind of brass instrument playing a melancholic tune. The smell of the cava reached his nostrils, a welcome relief from the smell of his own vomit breath. He felt a cockroach clamber over his hand. He let it for a while before smashing it down into the floor, feeling it squash against his skin. He’d been told you shouldn’t squash roaches cos their babies shoot out. Sounded like bullshit to him. The wind howled even louder now, blowing icy snowflakes over him. He reached into his pockets and took out a brand new packet of cigarettes and put one between his lips, then realized he didn’t have a lighter or matches. It was getting colder so he got off his chair and went to his wardrobe to take out something more practical. He was glad to remember he hadn’t returned Isaac’s snowboots yet. If he walked for about 20 miles due East he’s come to Melanie’s house and she’d have a lighter. She was indeed waiting on the porch for him, using the time to teach her pet wolves some tricks. They were gutting some fish for her and taking them to the smoking house to be well, er smoked. She gave him a light then he walked back, but fell down through the ice and