Cold Comfort. By CpSingleton © 2016
As he lay, curled in a foetal ball, newspaper for socks and an old towel for a quilt, Donkey wished he was a child again.
All the previous wishing to be an adult seemed so fruitless, as his nose throbbed and the winter wind shook the abandoned car he now attempted to sleep in. Tiny gaps in the rusty body of the battered Ford Escort whistled as the biting winter wind fought to enter the already fridge-like vehicle.
The young man shuffled with cold care. The bleeding had stopped and he didn’t want to waste his layers of old newspapers on mopping it up again.
He was sure his nose was broken: again.
He was also sure that folk wouldn’t buy that he’d just fallen into the door: again.
With that realisation he had never felt more alone.
He couldn’t go to his friends. They would surely laugh at him, as he was the new boy to the group. The police wouldn’t believe him. His parents, thirty miles away, would either pity or despair of the whole damned scenario.
He most definitely couldn’t go back to the flat.
It had to be an episode in his torrid life where the film was now battered beyond repair.