Three patients were dead. Three patients were dead. A typewriter was typing this sentence over and over again in Perry's mind, each click on the keyboard hitting his mind with a force that would drive anyone to drink. Right?
At least, this was what the doctor was telling himself as he poured himself yet another glass of whiskey. He exhaled, reaching forward with some trouble to take the crystal glass and bring it to his lips before letting it rest on his chest, fingers loosely holding it in place.
He glanced to the clock on the wall of his upscale apartment. He had to be to at work in an hour. He had gotten up about ten minutes ago, still intoxicated from last night's solo drinking party only to get an early start on today's.
Suddenly, a cry. And it wasn't his.
The sound of Jack's screams awoke Perry to his reality. He was sitting on his couch drunk at seven in the morning. He was divorced, middle aged, and oh yeah. A killer. He swallowed harshly, eye quivering as yet another high pitched yell sounded. Pulling himself to his tingling feet, he warily stepped across the living room towards Jack's room. He set the whiskey glass down on a bookshelf before stopping at his son's open door.
Jack stood up in his bed, waiting for someone to come rescue him from his nightmare. Perry stared back at him, waiting for the same things that Jack did.
"Daddy." He whimpered as he saw the strong figure of his father in the dark doorway. His father kept walking however, stopping at the next door.
"Jordan." He mumbled his voice groggy.
Jordan moaned softly as she was awaked. She sat herself up slowly, the sound of down comforters crunching as she moved. Getting a hold of her surroundings as a hand flew to her closed eyes.
"What is it, Per'?"
"Jack's up." He said as he continued onto the shower; hand on the wall to guide his wobbly body. He had to be to work in 53 minutes.