broken doors and cracked tiles
He writhed on the cold floor, clawing at the tiles with his chewed fingernails. He had hoped that his death would be peaceful and dignified, in a hospital room filled with love; or maybe quietly in his sleep. He coughed a dry, humourless laugh and blood poured from his mouth, finding its way into the cracks of the dirty tiles and spreading away from his ruined body. His hair was already matted with the blood he'd coughed up earlier after taking those damn pills and he'd been lying on the kitchen floor for the past hour, waiting for something, anything, to happen. He'd gladly take unconsciousness and was happy to feel his brain finally clouding over. He was vaguely aware of someone, a girl, shouting his name through his broken letterbox. He smiled, assuming he was in heaven already, as a wave of darkness took him under.