He couldn’t escape the voices. No matter his vice, they grew louder and louder. He unscrewed the cap from the bottle of whiskey and took a large gulp before hitting his cigarette. He leaned back in his tattered armchair and blew the smoke out. In the background, Miles Davis was playing. It seemed to be the only thing that could quiet the voices enough for him to think. To sleep. He reminded himself to thank his daughter for downloading the music onto his iPhone. He took another pull of his Newport and rubbed his stomach. He could feel the rumbling as it growled. He hadn’t eaten in days. Not because he didn’t have any food. Quite the contrary, his wife had just went grocery shopping earlier in the week. She’s the one that brought him the bottle of Jameson that had become his companion. He hadn’t eaten because he was afraid to move from the spot he was in. As long as he didn’t move, he was safe. Safe from the judgements of the outside world. Safe from what the voices were commanding him to do.

He sat up in his chair, took one more long pull of his cigarette, grabbed the revolver from the table beside him and stuck the barrel in his mouth. Maybe this was the only way out. That’s what he had been thinking for the past few days. Maybe his wife and kids would be better off without him. The payout on his life insurance policy would be more than enough to take care of them. He had made sure of that long before now. Before the voices turned him from a New York Times bestselling author into the miserable soul chewing on the barrel of gun. Tears freely flowed down his cheeks as he wrestled with whether or not to squeeze the trigger. The voices hushed to a slight whisper. He pulled back the hammer. That’s when the voices stopped.

He pulled the gun out his mouth and sobbed uncontrollably. His wife sprinted into the room. She went to embrace him but stopped when she saw the gun. His son appeared in the doorway. His daughter followed. As he sat there, he looked at the faces of his family. The concern they felt for him was on full display. His daughter asked if he wanted to listen to something different. He shook his head as he slipped the gun under the seat of the armchair. His son asked if they could play catch. He promised they would this weekend. His wife told the kids to go to their rooms. They quickly turned and disappeared from sight.

Once they were alone, his wife went to him. She wiped the tears from his face and kissed his forehead. He wrapped his arms around her. She returned the gesture. They embraced each other for what felt like a lifetime. When they finally released each other, she tried to retrieve the gun from under his seat. He grabbed her wrist and shook his head. She released her grip on the pistol and stood up. He buried his face in her midsection and sighed.

After she had left the room, he lit another cigarette and took another big swing of whiskey. The voices slowly returned. He turned up the jazz music playing in the background to try and drown them out. He pulled the revolver from under his seat. The voices quieted some. He stared out the window, unsure of what to do next.

He was awoken the next morning by the smells of breakfast. He sat up in his armchair and looked around the room. On the table beside him was a plate of pancakes, bacon and eggs with a cup of coffee. He stared at the food and a tear rolled down his cheek. Then devoured it. When he was done, he got up and walked out of the room. The house was eerily quiet. Even the voices hadn’t started their routine yet. He made his way to his son’s room, only to find it empty. It looked as though his son hadn’t even slept there the night before. The same could be said for his daughter’s room. He went to the master bedroom. And while the room showed signs of life, it was still empty. He decided to take advantage of this reprieve, no matter how brief it might be. He quickly undressed and took a shower.

As he dried off, he walked back into the bedroom. He wrapped the towel around his waist and laid down on the bed. That’s when he noticed the note laying on his wife’s pillow. He grabbed the piece of paper and sat up. According to the note, his wife had taken their kids to her parents’ house for a few days to give him some time and space. He balled up the piece of paper and fired it across the room. That’s when the voices started their chorus. He laid back on the bed as the chaos in his head washed over him completely.

A few weeks later, his wife and kids returned. When they entered the house, they immediately hit with a stench that was beyond description. The kids were instructed by their mother to stay by the door. She slowly walked through the house, cautiously poking her head into each room. When she reached her husband’s office, the smell grew stronger. She dreaded what she would find when she opened the door. She took a deep breath and prepared herself for the worst as she turned the knob. The scene that unfolded in front of her was exactly what she feared. Her husband was in his tattered armchair, revolver on the floor beside him, a gaping hole where the back of his head used to be. She opened her mouth to scream but nothing came out. She collapsed to the floor and began sobbing.