The Last Battle

Matt’s pallid skin clung to the sterile sheets of his hospice bed. The room was even whiter, devoid of flowers or cards. Just his costume, red and orange, slung over the chair in the corner.

Phoenix.

He couldn’t recall bringing it here.

Another shudder, Matt began hacking up thick yellow sputum, into his hand.

Fights, victories, recognition. An existence spent balancing threat and triumph.

Unaware that his nemesis was already within.

Head pounding, Matt focussed weak rays, making the malignant scum in his palm bubble gently.

Pathetic.

He wiped his hand on the sheet.

No one could save him now.

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