William Copsey

Before the accident Bill Copsey had a joke about his name.
Whenever introducing himself, he said,
”Not the black comedian.”.
He was a funny guy,
people told him that.

After Margaret died he tried to off himself but survived.

The concussions and the broken bones got better and the bathroom sink filled with bottles of pills.
At least he wasn't a pussy about it.

When he came home the house was empty.

His kids would from then on slowly scatter away from him.

He didn't mind, he had his memories and Eastwood videos.

On his crutches he paced the apartment and his tv showed a paused image of a dying adversary, with the pistol between his hand and the ground.

The hole in their ceiling was plastered and outlined hanging over him.

He wanted to finish the remodeling but wouldn't, Maggie was gone.

The days were not days anymore but minutes piling up.

One pill for the boredom, two pills for the muscle cramps and one more for eating them in the first place.

Whenever he dosed off on the sofa, he could hear the ceiling giving up again, the bricks would rain down, covering their bodies.

She was there and waving to him on his decent from the second floor window.

The comfort of death, freeze-framed in mid-action.

They were alone in their house and tried to not crack up.

And he woke up laughing.

Side-effects of a side-effect of his persistence of being alive.

He had a joke that he didn't have anyone to tell to,

what do you call waiting for sleep?

Purgatory.