Weaver of Dreams
“Used to be enough beer could quiet the voices in his head, but now it just seemed to make them louder. The bottle of pills sitting next to the stove caught his attention as he turned.
“Maybe I should take my meds.” He shrugged. “The doctor says they help.”
You don’t need them, the voices in his head whispered. You’re fine.
The pills didn’t really work. Not like the alcohol did . . . Used to.
He staggered into the living room, and plopped down on the torn couch with too much forc...e. His beer sloshed over the lip of the can, wetting his hand and leg.
“Dammit to hell,” he wiped the frothy liquid from his jeans.
Yes, dammit all to hell, the voices taunted him. Damn you to hell.
“No. No you don’t,” Foster yelled back. “I don’t want to hear it!”
He grabbed the remote from the dusty coffee table and pushed the power button.MoreLess
“Maybe I should take my meds.” He shrugged. “The doctor says they help.”
You don’t need them, the voices in his head whispered. You’re fine.
The pills didn’t really work. Not like the alcohol did . . . Used to.
He staggered into the living room, and plopped down on the torn couch with too much forc...e. His beer sloshed over the lip of the can, wetting his hand and leg.
“Dammit to hell,” he wiped the frothy liquid from his jeans.
Yes, dammit all to hell, the voices taunted him. Damn you to hell.
“No. No you don’t,” Foster yelled back. “I don’t want to hear it!”
He grabbed the remote from the dusty coffee table and pushed the power button.MoreLess
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