It's over in a second.

No one heard it. He didn’t even feel it, as the gossamer thin blood vessel that traversed the inside of his skull just gave way... Blood poured from the gaping fissure and bled out into the cavity between the surface of his brain and the boney casing. Too much blood, too little space. Pressure was pushing in all directions in the delicate and intricate contours of the brain. Wooliness enveloped his head, like someone was spring cleaning his brain with too much soap. Flushed and extra heavy. He could barely stay awake. The faces of the crowd faded into shadows. The train felt like it stopped. Hot. No. Boiling. Air….. Need fresh air…. He couldn’t make a sound. He was choking. Had to get out. He ripped apart his shirt in agony. Tears of blood bursting out uncontrollably.

Three steps and it was all over. He didn’t even feel the concrete as he hit the ground face first. His phone fell out of his back and scuttled across the platform. Then, not so much a final breath as a pitiful gurgle that trailed off. His bladder gave in and the remnants of his night out soaked the front of his trousers. People tutted, rolled their eyes and shook their heads in concert. There is no sympathy in sublime suburbia. Everyone minded their own business and pretended to be oblivious. Seconds crept into minutes. A blue tinge had already coloured his lips. His eyes were wide and unmoving staring out across, praying for help. Then his phone rang. That stupid “It’s too late” ringtone. Sharbear flashed intermittently on the LCD display. The voicemail picked up.