Sense Of Evil

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THE VOICES WOULDN’T leave him alone.

Neither would the nightmares.

He threw back the covers and stumbled from the bed. A full moon beamed enough light into the house for him to find his way to the sink in the bathroom.

He carefully avoided looking into the mirror but was highly conscious of his shadowy reflection as he fumbled for a drinking cup and turned on the tap. He drank three cups of water, vaguely surprised that he was so thirsty and yet… not.

He was usually thirsty these days.

It was part of the change.

He splashed his face with the cold water, again and again, not caring about the mess he was making. By the third splash, he realized he was crying.

Wimp. Spineless coward.

“I’m not,” he muttered, sending the next handful of water to wet his aching head.

You’re afraid. Pissing-in-your-pants afraid.

Half-consciously, he pressed his thighs together. “I’m not. I can do it. I told you I could do it.”

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