Friday Flash Fiction 18

THE POINT FURTHEST FROM THE SUN
By Gareth L Powell

Condensation clings to the window. Outside, a quiet rain falls. The only sound you can hear comes from the flat above: the endless scratching of a record player repeating the same phrase over and over and over. You lie quietly on the bed, listening, wrapped in the musty blankets, too comfortable to move. Kirstie sits on the arm of the chair by the window.

'I just can't see the point any more,' she says. She starts to cry. Lying there, you watch her walk out into the hall in her thick socks, to the top of the stairs, and you wonder if you should go after her. But the blankets are warm and you're very tired. You've taken a drug that's made you very tired.