Hey, guys. I tried a new style of writing (Italic parenthesis) because I like how it works when Stephen King does it. Tell me how you like it, yeah?

I lay back on my couch, cradling a bottle of Scotch in my hands like one would a mug of coffee in the morning. More specifically, my third bottle of Scotch. Poor Renee, but no, I mustn't think of that. Oh? Then what about Jack, or Leia, or Meryl, or David, or the countless other people you've murdered

(it wasn't murder)

without a second thought? You never even asked why. The Order is corrupt, you know that. So why do you still- he stopped himself. Those thoughts went against everything he had learned as a child, everything he had been, as Mark Twain would say, "tutored in".

Sheila walked out of the back room, pulling her shirt on and heading for the door. Was her name Sheila? I didn't remember. Would I remember that she had been here in a few hours? Probably not. You're killing yourself. Yes well... one life for the sake of many, eh?

"You're killing yourself, you know." I said it out loud this time, standing up and looking at the clock. 4:30 AM. Huh. When did I do Jenny in? Wait, not Jenny, Renee. When did I kill Renee? I didn't know

(or care)

but I did want to go to sleep. I sat on my bed for the longest of times, not even noticing that I'd walked to it from the couch. Had I? Or had I just been sitting there the whole time?

I checked the clock again. It was now 1:00 PM, and I was lying in vomit. Wait, what? Ugh. What did I do last night? Ya drank, mate. The demon drink got ya again. Now you have a hangover, and because you have a hangover, I have a hangover. So fuck you. Ouch.

I stretched, stood up, and yawned. In that order, which seemed backwards to me. I cracked my neck and walked over to my bathroom, stepped into the shower and, well, showered. I also slipped, but I caught myself. On the floor. Which only hurt a bit. Stop it. WAKE UP. WAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUP now or else you never will again...

That was when I realized it. I was sagging, beginning to fall forward. What the fuck? I straightened myself, shutting the water off. I leaned against the wall, my vision blurring and my lips beginning to get heavy... were they? My lids lowered themselves, and I stepped out of the shower, trying to keep awake and alive. I stumbled over to my freezer and opened it, shoving my head in the ice bucket. Was that a good idea or a bad one?

I didn't know, but then again, I also didn't know if I was stroking out or what. So I jogged in place, not once going for my phone, although I felt that I should. Something was stopping me- was it because I didn't want to know? Hell, if I was going to die here, I wasn't going down without a goddamned fight.

After ten minutes of jogging in place and drinking shit tons of water,

(no more alcohol never not ever)

I realized that I could open my eyes fully. I stopped moving, testing my various bodily functions. I could do jumping jacks, clap, and do a handstand. I was probably fine. Maybe. Oi. Now I have a headache and a fear of dying, so go do something happy. God damn it. That voice was supposed to be helpful.

And now you're talking about the voices in your head as separate entities. Good fucking deal. I shook my head and sighed. It was time. Time to check the safe and see if I- wait-a-minute. No. No more dead drop deals. Time for a face-to-face with a higher-up. I went to the safe and opened it, checking the scrawled words: Nathan Williams. 1389 Rosewall ave. Quick and clean. Let the cops find his body, leave no trace. Fuck you.

I am NOT a hitman. So I wrote my reply on the back of the note: Face-to-face meeting. Now. As far as I understood, they showed up in the night to drop it off and then monitored me. So, they would eventually check the back of the note for what I wrote. For now, though, I huddled on my couch and hugged my knees, crying and longing for a normal life. Tough, mate. You were born with this shit.