He laid his head on the mahogany and took a deap breath in. From this angle he could see the heavy layer of dust that covered the floor, broken only by the game trail plotted by his own feet. The bed. The refrigerator. The couch. The bed. His red pulse slowly began to pool in his view, stage right. He could feel his eye twitch against the dust, and immediately thought how superfluous it would be to blink now. How pointless. But against his mighty reason, he did.
He knew he had made a mistake. He raised his hand to feel the wound in his chest, noticed an orange peel by the foot of his bed, thought of a story he had once heard about Christmas, and died.
