This is my first attempt at a short story. I hope you like it. Comments would be appreciated...

The bone-crunching screech. I can still hear in my ears.
 
I should feel guilty. I should feel ashamed. Maybe I should have contacted the next of kin. Or at least made some attempt to. Especially given the circumstances.

I can hear my mother saying this. And when all is said and done, she’s probably right.

But, what do they say, “you can’t look a gift horse in the face.’ Or something like that, I’ve never been good with proverbs and phrasing. Never been much good at anything.

In the law of probabilities something had to go right, sometime.

On the tube, as usual, on my way to Temple, to my boring little job. All the time wishing I could find something better. To take my mind off the dullness of my existence, I indulged in my favourite pastime, examining people’s faces and trying to read their thoughts. Today, it was plain.

There seemed to be consensus drifting through the compartment.

The question quivered, constantly at the edge of their consciousness. Each and everyone. The secretary reading her book, the City Analyst still struggling with the Telegraph when the other broadsheets have taken the sensible, compact route; the grubby web developer holed up in the corner, his head slightly bobbing in time to the tunes on his MP3; they all have the look.

No one knows the answer. No one has a cure as no one knows the cause. We only suffer the symptoms. And like poor GPs, only deal with them with quick fixes.

Hitting the shops for a bit of retail therapy; staggering out of the boozer, tanked up to the gills; having a holiday that you can’t afford, and feeling miserable when you come back as the APR on the card’s suddenly gone into the stratosphere. They’re all just band aids on the wound of life. And all the time, we’re searching for a bigger plaster.

The tube lurched forward into Embankment station. I stood up with the rest of my smelly, fellow sardines and slumped forward out of the door. I was the last one.

My bag had fallen down my arm, and I was trying to pull it back up again, but due to it’s ‘everything but the kitchen sink’ contents, I was in a battle with gravity. And I was loosing. Giving way, the strap broke, and out tumbled, what seemed like, my life.

My Blackberry, phone, makeup bag, notes from yesterday’s meeting, keys, packed lunch, DVDs, cough sweets and of course, my toiletries. God how embarrassing.

I dropped to the floor, snatching at items, pulling them back into their rightful place.

I didn’t hear him at all.

I turned round and a man was standing, looking down at me. I was mortified. But, as I first expected, the man didn’t seem to take pleasure in my misfortune. He looked like he understood. A sad, almost despondent expression graced his face.

I could hear the clattering of the approaching train.

He put a heavy hand on my shoulder. I froze. No stranger had ever touched me before.

“Life’s shit!”

It was all he said. With such strength and conviction that no other opinion existed. I stared at him. His dark blue eyes seemed lost. He looked liked he'd been crying a lifetime. Such a sense of utter desolation, I breathed in, feeling his obvious pain.

Then he jumped.

I stared, my eyes, super-glued open with fright, refused to blink. It happened so fast. I saw nothing of the body. Just heard. That bone-crunching screech.

Strange, how frail we humans are when thousands of tonnes of metal try to interface with us.

In the ensuing chaos that followed, no one noticed it. Just something floating, like a pale pink petal. Isolated and contained. I don’t know whether he threw it, or it just flew from his pocket on impact. I’ll never know.

Dazed, dreamlike, I picked it up and slipped it in my pocket.

After all the statement-giving was done, and the police were satisfied, I was allowed to leave.

I called in, told my colleagues at work what had happened. Then, I went home. Lay on the sofa. Fell asleep and tried to forget.

Later in the evening, I woke. Shoved something indescribable in the microwave, and ate it without much attention. To look means to want to know. And that’s the last thing I wanted.

I flicked on the news. Listened to bits of it.

The window was open. A draft shot through bringing pollen dust. I felt the membranes in my noise twitch. Sneezing three times in quick succession, I reached for my tissue in my pocket. That was when I felt it. Nestling. In my hand.

I took it out and turned it over.

I stared at the screen, then down to the slip of paper in my hands.

The same hands that just this morning wrote a cheque for a new Mercedes SL55.

Perhaps, my mother’s right, perhaps I will burn in hell. But, right now, I’m enjoying heaven on Earth.