Jeffrey came home that night later than usual. He slunk inside gently, as to not wake anyone. Slowly making his way into the kitchen. The old farm house moaned as he stumbled around checking the cabinets.  

“He was out drinking again.” The voice said.

Analytical as if they were watching him.

“That’s the third time this week.” Another voice said.

“What are you doing!” Another yelling angerly.

“Stop! Stop! I can’t concentrate.” Jeffery exclaimed in a hushed tone. 

I just need to find the pills. Once I find the pills, they will go away.

“The pills are poisoned. You don’t want to die do you?” The voice said.

“They’re watching you, Jeffery.” Another voice said.

“They’re right outside!” Another said whispering.

“Fuck, fuck!”

Jeffery started to look more frantically around the house, pulling everything out of the cabinets. Littering the kitchen with spices. In his haste he tipped over the cookie jar. It fell with a crash!

“Don’t breathe! It’s poison gas.” The voice said.

“A bomb went off!” The other voice said.

“Hide Jeffery, hide!” Another voice said.

“Get the gun, Jeffery! They’re after you.”

Constant fearful voices swirling like a torrent of chaos in his mind. The spice powder in the air began to turn yellow like mustard gas. Where the cookies were, boiling blood took their place.

Jeffery held his breath, and started to run for the back door. He tripped and his head bounced off the stone floor.

When he came to, his eyes were foggy. He could barely see a pill bottle under the couch. He reached and grabbed the bottle.  Squinting and fluttering his eyelids as if the room was too bright. The bottle came into focus. The bottle read ziprasidone… it was empty.

“Fuck” Jeffery said.

“Good, it was poisoned anyway.” The voice said.

“They’re still after you. Run, Jeffery! Run! They want you. They’re going to kill you. There’s no getting away. They will find you, Jeffery! RunRunGetTheGUNGetTheGUNRunRunJefferyRunThey’reAfterYouThey’reComingJefferyThey’reComingTheyarereleasingpoisonitwillkillyouitwillkillyoutheywillkillyoutheywillkillyouTHEYWILLKILLYOU!”

Jeffery crawls over to the end table, reaches in the drawer and grabs his gun. A whirlpool of voices in his head.  He must pour them out.  He feels the gritty sensation of metal on metal as he squeezes the trigger, like stepping on fresh snow.

A shot echoes through the forest, as a murder of crows fly off cawing.