The light from the screen was the only thing illuminating his otherwise dark life. The pull towards the game was visceral. He felt it within his lungs. Each breath ached for the brightly coloured squares.
He woke in the morning having dreamt of the perfect combination, and the first thing he did, regardless of how full his bladder was, was swipe up on his phone to resume the game he’d played before his eyes betrayed him.
It was now dark outside, and it occurred to him he’d been here all day. He quickly exited the game to see the time. Just after eleven. Had he meant to have gone to work?
He thought so. He could see ten missed calls and fifteen text messages. Most of the missed calls had come from his boss, but some were from Matilda, Grace, and one from Rory.
He guessed that he should have picked them up from somewhere.
Peter stood up, stretched, found some bread not infested with mould and scraped peanut butter over one side.
Someone tentatively knocked on the door.
He opened the door. Grace’s nose shrivelled at the smell of his tiny apartment.
She took a step back, looked him up and down, before walking back towards the concrete stairs.
He rushed after her, questioned why she had come over.
Making sure you weren’t dead. But it smells like someone died in there.